


The Mistle-Tones

by Nemainofthewater, Soliyra



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: A Cappella, Alternate Universe, Art and Fic, Boys Being Idiots, Christmas, Don’t copy to another site, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pining, Quentin POV, Singing, Tropes, all the tropes!, mhhe, storms both metaphorical and literal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21766939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soliyra/pseuds/Soliyra
Summary: Quentin's desperate to win his mother's approval by auditioning for the a cappella group she founded which performs at Brakebills mall every Christmas Eve. When he's rejected by Marina, his only option is for him to form his own group with the help of his best friend Penny and his work colleagues, Fen and Josh. However, he knows that his only chance to beat Marina once and for all comes in the form of aloof boss Eliot Waugh's stunning voice. Quentin will do whatever it takes to get him to sing, whether he wants to or not. The only problem is Eliot hates him. Oh, and the fact that he has a crush on the guy.
Relationships: Fen/Margo Hanson/Josh Hoberman, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi & Quentin Coldwater, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz
Comments: 45
Kudos: 49
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	1. Prologue: 15 Years Before

**Author's Note:**

> Written by Nemainofthewater and illustrated by Soliyra.
> 
> This is the first time I've ever done a Big Bang and I'd like to thank everyone who helped me and had to listen to me complain about how dumb Quentin and Eliot are. I'd especially like to thank my beta ThebanSacredBand and my artist Soliyra who alongside being an amazing artist was also kind enough to do a quick American-pick for me! I hope you all enjoy the fic!  
> -Nemain
> 
> Hi everyone! This has been quite the adventure. What you're about to look at is the culmination of several months work. The lettering for each heading was hand drawn in pencil, scanned, and manipulated digitally. Some headings were inked with a fine art pen before being scanned in. I used a number of free stock images to create the headings, and have tried to credit those artist, otherwise pretty much everything you see was created by me (excepting the vector snowflakes in '15 years before.' I unfortunately lost the attribution). The two illustrations pushed me way out of my comfort zone. I gave myself a crash course in portraiture to prepare for MHHE, and the bar scene is one of the most complex and detailed drawings I've ever done (I'm especially proud of the Easter egg in the painting on the wall). This has been a massive project and I'm thrilled to finally be able to share it with you! 
> 
> Working with Nemain has been a dream come true. This fic was a true collaboration.  
> -Soli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shouting. Quentin retreats further into his little corner. With the glow-in-the-dark stars that he and Julia had stuck there (with more enthusiasm than accuracy) and his duvet covered in colourful dragons wrapped around him like a shield, Quentin is as safe as he can possible be. He concentrates fiercely on his book, immersing himself on Bilbo’s escape from the cave trolls.

The shouting intensifies.

He can’t hear it. Not in his nest. No one can harm or hurt him here. Dad said so, and Julia cast a magic spell and everything to protect it. He closes his eyes for a moment to block the world out and remembers. Remembers Julia’s solemn face as she waved the piece of willow they’d found by the river in graceful circles around her head, chanting in a made-up language that made him giggle. 

The shouting peaks, and Quentin hears: “…never wanted him anyway but you forced-”

He shrinks further into his corner and pulls his duvet over his head. Bilbo. Think about Bilbo and his intelligence, and the way that stood fast despite his panic, until Gandalf managed to trick the trolls into arguing so long that they get caught by the sun and turn to stone. Quentin loves Bilbo, unashamedly. Bilbo doesn’t have to be strong or brave or talented to be the hero. He just has to use his mind. Quentin can do that. It’s the one thing that he can do.

The shouting stops.

Quentin shifts nervously. It’s never a good sign when that happens. It means days of stony silences and pointed comments and being forced to choose a side. They’d never admit to it, but both of his parents want the moral high ground of having their son support them. Even when they would never notice him usually, apart to sigh and pat him on the head.

A door slams.

“Quentin,” his mom’s voice snaps, “Come on. You’re going to be late for your lesson.”

Quentin reluctantly gets to his feet, abandoning _The Hobbit_. He doesn’t want to go but he knows better than to argue. Not when this is the only time that his mom actually wants to spend time with him. Never mind that he doesn’t have much natural talent. Or that he really doesn’t enjoy exposing himself to ridicule in front of his peers.

His mom has always dreamt of having a young, talented child. One she could perform with.

The only time he’s ever seen her happy, truly happy, is when she’s up on stage, performing with her group. Singing her heart out with her friends. Voices twining together and making something beautiful and transcendent, something larger than her. Sitting in the audience, sweaty hand clasping his dad’s, Quentin used to wonder why she never looks at him like that. Now, of course, he doesn’t have to wonder.

She watches _America’s Got Talent_ with disturbing intensity, hungrily drinking in the mother-daughter double acts. Cooing over the children. Quentin knows that she’s disappointed in him. Disappointed that he isn’t any good at…well, anything really. He got cast as a dancing tree in his last recital. The look of disappointment on her face was. Well. It’s not something he’s going to forget any time soon.

He knows that he isn’t the child that she wanted. Hell, everyone knows. Judging by the amount of time Julia spends around him, her and all of her family probably knows as well. It doesn’t make it any more painful, that she can’t even bother to pretend. Can’t even bother to hide that she doesn’t love him.

He looks at his dad as he’s being dragged toward the door.

Ted Coldwater is not a confrontational man. But anyone can be pushed to their limits. And these days the only time his parents talk to one another is through pointed silences followed by a significant amount of shouting. His dad… he looks sad. He looks tired. Quentin hates it whenever he looks like that. Defeated. Old. He can’t seem to meet Quentin’s eyes.

Quentin stares at the floor. He won’t be responsible for causing any more trouble. Maybe…maybe if he tries, really tries this time, his mom won’t be as disappointed in him. And…at least there’s always Julia there as well.

And so, he accepts the inevitable and walks out the door.


	2. 12 Days Until Deck the Mall

Shit. Shit shit shit. Fuck. Fuck shit fuck. Today’s the day.

He stares desperately into his bathroom mirror.

“Come on Coldwater,” he says, “You can do it. You can. You’ve been working for this your entire life.”

The face staring back at him from the heat-fogged glass doesn’t believe him. Which, fair. With his hair damp from the shower and already loosely curling in the heat, and his wide, frightened eyes (almost dwarfed by the heavy bags) he doesn’t look like a shoo-in applicant for a prestigious _a Capella_ group. He…possibly doesn’t look like a successful member of society, honestly. Combing his hands through his hair desperately, he gathers the wet strands up into a bun. Then a half-bun. Then with a sigh he lets it fall loose again.

His phone notification sounds, bright and incongruously cheerful. It’s a message from Julia.

_Break a leg!!_ _J_ _J_ _J_ it reads, _can’t wait to see you here!! Don’t forget, auditions are_ -

He can’t see the rest of the message without unlocking his phone so Quentin reaches over to grab it. Only. Fuck. It turns out that wet tiles, no bathmat, and his innate clumsiness aren’t a good mix (big surprise) and he slips slightly, grazing his hand against his phone and sending it plummeting off the counter. He can’t do anything but watch in mute horror as it tips off the counter and smashes into the damp tile of his bathroom floor. The screen shatters into hundreds of bright shards before the whole thing goes black.

“Noooo,” he groans, “Not again.”

Because this is the third fucking phone this month, and he’s pretty sure that he’s not going to be able to replace it. Bending down, he gently picks up the battered device from the floor, examining it carefully. There is a spiderweb of cracks radiating out from the left corner of the screen, and volume button looks rather beyond repair. That’s…fine. He’ll just listen to all of his music at the same volume for a while, that’s fine. Everything is fine. The most worrying thing is that the machine looks slightly damp, having fallen victim to one of the small puddles dotted around the floor.

That’s…also fine. He, er, he has some rice around here? That’s what people do in films, put their wet phones in a bag of rice, right? And it soaks up the water or something. He knows better than to try and switch it back on in any case: he’d made that mistake with phone number two, which had unfortunately fallen victim to a particularly ill-timed cloudburst.

He resolutely doesn’t think about the message that he missed from Julia. It was…it was probably just reminding him to iron his clothes, or something. He’d heard that Marina, the current leader of the Snow Belles, is particularly strict about dress codes: something about coordinating colours? Julia likes to complain about it a lot. And he means a lot.

Stumbling out of the bathroom, maybe-broken phone clutched in his hand, he stops dead. Because Martin Chatwin is on his bed, shedding his fur all over the carefully picked and pre-planned clothes that Julia had chosen for him. The clothes that she had promised that ‘Marina would love!’. The ones that now looked as if they had engaged in a fight with a wool factory and lost.

“Fuck,” Quentin said blankly, and he really has been using that word a lot recently, huh. And it’s not even 10 am yet. It’s only… He glances over at the clock.

“SHIT!”

Because it’s 9:45. Somehow, he’s managed to waste two entire hours in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror like an idiot. And that means that auditions are in an hour, and he has no clothes, no hair-styling plan (although honestly, he never had one to begin with) and no working cell phone.

On his bed, Martin Chatwin gives a small mrow of content, and kneads his paws even deeper into Quentin’s clothes.

“I really hate you,” Quentin says, with feeling.

#

Somehow, miraculously he manages to make it to the audition on time. Well, miraculously and thanks to Penny Adiyodi, his maybe best-non-Julia-friend who arrives after a frantic phone call on his landlady’s seldom used landline. Quentin shivers to himself as he remembers Jane’s amused stare at him as he stutters out what he needs over the phone. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s been given an amazingly discounted rent for looking after her hellcat, and that he literally cannot afford to live anywhere else at this point, he would definitely move out. Because there’s no way that someone telling you: “You’re like a volunteer tomato, Quentin. It’s your destiny to come back” is in any way normal, or non-creepy.

In any case, he clatters into the town hall that is serving as audition space, misjudging his own strength and slamming the doors open with a bang that makes him pre-emptively wince and hunch in on himself. He yelps: “Sorry! I’m. Er. Sorry” but it echoes into the empty hall. And…that’s not normal. Over the past twenty years or so of his life, almost from as soon as he could walk, he’s been attending auditions: at first under his mom’s watchful stare, and then later on his own as he tried to get something, anything. And if one thing has been a constant, it’s that they are never quiet. Full of shouting and the occasional assault charge. But never quiet.

“Quentin Coldwater?” the pretty brunette sitting at the head of a table on the stage asks. There are three of them sat there, and Quentin is pretty certain that they must be the Snow Belles. 90% certain. The fact that Julia is sat there, flashing him a small, vaguely pained smile, is a large clue. Plus, he’s heard about Marina. Julia described her as willing to sell any of them for a corn chip, and yeah? He can see that. She never said anything about how intimidatingly put-together she is, though, even with her leather-and-black-dress aesthetic. It…really shouldn’t look professional, but it did? It really, really did.

“Yes!” Quentin says, loud and a little overeager, desperate to prove that he’s not nervous, that he’s a confident person who’s perfect for the coveted and newly created position of token guy in the group. That he’s had years and years of voice training. He smiles widely, baring his teeth to hopefully convey his winning charisma.

(He hopes that the fact that the extent of his voice training lessons have been to turn a terrible voice into a not-that-bad one aren’t also showing on his face, but knowing him…yeah, they’re probably there, front and centre, blaring: ‘I only came fifth in the regional under-12s singing championships! There were 8 contestants.’)

“You’re late.”

“I…I’m not? I mean, um…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” a curly-haired brunette says, rolling her eyes. From the description, and the fact that she looks like she could shank him and not even break a sweat, she must be Kady.

“Either spit it out or shut the fuck up, Coldwater,” she says.

“Crude,” Marina says, “But accurate.”

“I’m on time,” Quentin says, spitting the words out so it sounds more like imontime, nervously tucking his hair behind his ear, “I mean. The Facebook event said that it was 8:30 to 11:45?”

“Unless we found a suitable group member,” Marina said smoothly, crossing her arms and pursing her perfectly painted red lips, “And unfortunately for you, we did. About fifteen minutes ago.”

“That’s-that’s not fair!” Quentin says, “I mean… You can’t just not let me audition.”

“Oh boo hoo,” Marina says, tauntingly, “Let me tell you a secret. Life isn’t fair.”

Quentin blinks at her.

“Do you er,” he says, “Do you practise those clichés, or do they just come naturally…?”

Julia looks pained, closing her eyes and resting her head in her hands. Quentin…ok, that wasn’t the smartest thing to say? But also, would it kill her to back him up?

Marina flashes him a tight smile.

“Thank you for your interest, Mr Coldwater,” she says, “We’ll be in touch.”

#

“How was it?” Penny asks when he slumps dejectedly into the car.

“I don’t want to talk about,” Quentin says.

“Hmm,” Penny says, starting the car up and pulling out of the parking lot, “I don’t even understand why you want this so much, dude. I mean, it’s not as if you actually like singing.”

“I like singing!” Quentin said, feeling weirdly defensive.

“Yeah, right. I’ve seen those videos of you on YouTube man, and that is not the face of a guy who wanted to be up there.”

“I mean,” Quentin says, “I don’t really want to sing those types of songs? All the-” he makes a vague motion with his hands, “You know, the whole peace-on-earth, isn’t religion great kind of crap. But I like the ones where…it’s like, you start singing and it’s just meant to be fun? For you and for the people listening?”

“Oh god,” Penny says, “You like _Jingle Bell Rock_ , don’t you.” It isn’t a question.

“…maybe…”

“Shit. And I thought that your musical taste was bad when you were just getting Taylor Swift stuck in my head.”

“Just because all you listen to is fucking dubstep!”

“Yeah, sure. Nerd.”

And Quentin relaxes back into his seat, losing himself in the familiar bickering. Maybe…maybe things aren’t going to be that bad.

#

Quentin and Penny have been friends since their college roommate days: mostly in self-defence. As Quentin likes to tell people, as it was either bond (and quickly) or murder each other.

If he’s honest, some days when he was lying in bed, facing the wall, and resolutely trying to ignore the fact that Penny clearly had someone over to, er, visit (‘You can just say sex, Coldwater, god’), the latter looked like the most tempting option. Especially for his sleeping patterns. But they managed to get through freshman year without any murder charges, and then for sophomore year it was kind of stupid to change roommates when they’d just got used to each other…And before they knew it, they’d spent four years living together. Hell, Penny is technically his longest relationship, and isn’t that a depressing thought?

But yeah. Best friends, there are some things that you can’t share without liking each other, etc etc. So when Penny got a job at this start-up events company, _Fillory inc_ (because it was meant to be as intricate as filigree, or some shit like that) and heard that there was a job opening for another office minion (literally the words on the job description, ‘Office minion’) he’d stormed into Quentin’s house, thrown out his depression cereal and got him to interview for it. And somehow, he’d got the job.

Something that he’s regretting right now. Because as they pull up to _Fillory inc_ , Eliot’s waiting for them out the front. Alongside the entirety of the company, which sure is only like 50 people, but is still quite a lot.

Eliot is talking, gesturing wildly and (probably) eloquently at the front of the crowd, and Quentin and Penny exchange glances before quietly parking and slinking out of the car as unobtrusively as possible.

“Tell me again how you convinced me to go for this?” he mutters to Penny, wincing as several people look back and glare at them.

“Because misery loves company?”

Eliot looks straight at them, one scornful eyebrow raised, and both of them hurriedly shut up. Because Eliot is many things, elegant, well-dressed, hedonistic as fuck, but patient is not one of them.

“As I was saying,” Eliot continues, somewhat acerbically, “This is an important event, which means don’t fuck it up. Capiche?”

“What event is he talking about?” Quentin whispers. Josh Hoberman leans over and breaths: “The Christmas extravaganza. Another company pulled out at the last minute, and _Fillory’s_ got the contract for it.”

“The, er,” Quentin says, “The one at Brakebills mall?”

“Dude,” Josh says, “There’s only like, a thousand people in this town, max. How many Christmas extravaganzas do you think there are?”

The Christmas extravaganza is, well honestly, it’s kind of crap. Lots of gaudy red and green decorations, the same ten songs blaring out over the speakers, and a tree that’s usually pretty lopsided. It takes place on Christmas Eve, because want else is there to do in a small town other than drink cheap mulled wine and blearily watch other people’s children go nuclear on sugar? Its only redeeming quality is Deck the Mall, the music performance on Christmas Eve. The one the Snow Belles have performed at every single year since Quentin’s mom founded them.

And…look, it’s probably pretty shitty as well. It’s not like any of them are like, untapped Broadway stars, or anything. But there’s something about the drama, the music. The way that his mom would always smile at him from up on stage (the only time that she seemed to be happy) as he gazed rapturously up at her. There’s something that always screams ‘Christmas’.

“I can see the stars in your eyes, Coldwater,” Penny says, “Cool it, dude. It’s not like we’re going to be able to actually enjoy any of it: you know what Eliot’s like. We’ll have wasted so many hours moving the tinsel a couple of inches to the left or sourcing the perfect shade of glitter that by the time the actual even comes around we’ll be sick of it.”

“He’s not-” Quentin started to say.

“Er, yeah. Yeah, he is dude. Crush or not, you have to see that he’s a perfectionist hardass.”

“He’s just dedicated! He’s has to be, he’s, er, he’s stupidly young to be head of a successful start-up. And anyway, I don’t have a crush on him!”

Embarrassingly, his voice is high-pitched and cracks on the last word. Not super convincing. But…ok, so maybe he does have a small crush on Eliot? I mean, you’d have to be dead not to have at least an aesthetic appreciation for him. And god, he always looks like he’s got his shit together or something. Long and lean, elegant hands always in motion, leaning over to correct someone’s decoration placement, or to snatch a bolt of fabric out of Todd’s hands. The small flick of his tongue as he slowly eats one of Josh’s test confections, eyes closed in concentration as he savours flavours and textures, a pleased crease on his forehead…

“You’re blushing,” Penny says suspiciously, “Oh, god, don’t say what you’re thinking about. I don’t want the mental images.”

“Shut up!”

Ok, look he’s self-aware enough to realise that, like, 50% of his crush on Eliot is because he’s unobtainable. He’s this safe person to have a crush on? Because he’ll never actually get together with him, he’s got more of a chance at winning the lottery. Or winning _America’s Got Talent_. Or starring in _Fiddler on the roof_ , or whatever.

“Excuse me?” Eliot’s voice cuts through their little group, “Am I paying you to loiter? Back to work!”

#

It’s a busy day. Because, ok Penny isn’t wrong when he says that Eliot is a hardass. (That isn’t the only thing that he calls Eliot, but it’s the only one that Quentin can really repeat without blushing). The hours pass in a haze of flour (almond flour for the endless macarons that Josh turning out, eyes wild as he accosts passers-by and demands ‘Is that enough lemon?’), silk banners (‘I said apricot, not gold! Apricot’) and calling every Bose in a hundred-mile radius to check for new-but-not-too-expensive speakers (‘How the hell did we manage to break _all_ the speakers?’ ‘Fucking Todd’).

It’s not until 5pm that Quentin gets a chance to borrow Penny’s phone (‘You’d better not break it, Coldwater’) and call Marina.

“Who is this?”

“Quentin? Coldwater. I mean, it’s Quentin Coldwater. I, um, I-” auditioned for you today, although auditioned isn’t exactly the right word.

“Oh. You.”

Well, Marina definitely remembers him. That, or she’s just this unenthused with everyone, which actually is a distinct possibility.

“Did, I. Um. I’m just calling to ask if. Er. Did-”

“This is physically painful. No, you didn’t get it. There were really talented people, we’ll kind you in mind, keep auditioning blah blah blah. I’m sure you know the drill by now. Don’t ever call this number again.”

And she hangs up.

Quentin spends a moment, just staring down at the phone. Eyes blank. Because… I mean she’s right. He isn’t…he’s not…

“Hey.”

There’s a gentle touch on his shoulder, and Quentin looks up. It’s Penny, staring down at him in concern. He has a smudge of flour high on his cheekbone, and Quentin keeps staring at it. How did it get there? Was Penny helping Josh out? Why? Penny works with the electrics and, sometimes, with music, he doesn’t have any reason to be in the kitchens. That strip of flour is taunting him.

“…Q. Q. Come on man, I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong. Quentin, talk to me man. Quentin!”

Hmm?

Oh.

Penny’s talking to him.

“Screw this,” Penny says, and starts steering Quentin out of the building and towards his car. As they move, he plucks his phone out from Quentin’s hand and punches in a number.

“What the fuck happened?” he growls into it. Then: “Fuck... Yes, I know how much it means to him… Well maybe if you… Just…No, of course not…Fine, the _Wandering Dune_ , 10 minutes.”

He hangs up with an angry jab, looking as if he wished flip phones were still a thing so that he could snap it shut.

Then they’re walking out of the door, quickly and confidently….

“Oh! Penny. And Quentin. You’re leaving early.”

Fen, second in command at _Fillory inc_ , frowns up at them both. It’s like being menaced by a kitten. A small, extremely fluffy one. She blinks, and then leans forward.

“Are you alright?” she asks Quentin earnestly, all of her annoyance suddenly evaporating, “You look…” she casts around hesitantly to find the right word, “Pale.”

“I’m fine,” Quentin says, ignoring the way Penny is aiming his most menacing death glare in Fen’s direction, “I’m just. Like. A failure. I mean, I’ve just realised that I am. Have always been. Still am? But yeah, just been reminded of that.”

Fen’s face hardens.

“The _Wandering Dune_?” she asks Penny, who nods at her shortly. Huh. How does she know which bar they’re going to? ...to be fair, it is the only one in town that isn’t either covered in rats and probably slightly illegal or so expensive that you probably have to pay to breathe the air in it. But still. Is there something about his face that’s screaming ‘this man needs a drink?’

“Seemed like a good idea.”

“I’ll meet you there,” she says.

“Wait-” but she’s gone before Penny can finish his sentence. Honestly, Quentin doesn’t give a shit. The more the merrier, right? Getting horribly drunk in front of his technically-boss just seems like the logical cherry on top of the shitshow that’s been his day.

#

Julia is sitting at a table when they arrive, three violently coloured cocktails set out on the table in front of her. She waves them over.

“Q!” she says, pushing one of the cocktails over to him. He takes it morosely and starts sipping. It’s-fine. Not amazing, but there’s a lot of alcohol in it which is really all he can ask for.

Penny claims the final drink and fishes out the maraschino cherry, dropping it unceremoniously into Quentin’s drink. Julia snorts, and then hands over her own cherry as well, watching in amusement as he promptly shoves all three of them into his mouth at once.

“I still don’t know how you can eat those,” she says, “They’re…pretty bad, Q.”

Quentin refuses to dignify that with a response. Maraschino cherries are delightful, and he could (and has) eat an entire jar of them. Anyway, he’s the one they’re trying to cheer up, or whatever, right? That means he automatically gets to eat all the cherries, and without being teased. And he tells them so.

Penny stares straight at Julia.

“You see what I had to put up with for four years?” he says flatly.

“Try literally all my life,” Julia retorts, but she’s smiling at him, and, managing to flag down a waitress with a look, she orders another cocktail. With ‘as many maraschino cherries as possible.’ Judging from the appraising looks that she’s being given, that drink is going to be more cherry than anything else.

“Anyway, Q,” she says, “We’re not just here to drink-”

“-We’re not?” Penny says but is ignored.

“-we’re here because I have a plan.”

“A plan?” Quentin asks, “I mean…Jules, what kind of plan?”

Because he loves her, mostly platonically these days, but he also knows what her plans are like. They always go perfectly on the first try or fail. Often explosively. Like the pumpkin incident of 2009. And considering that he’s part of this plan (??) it’s more likely to go horribly, horribly, wrong. Just- badly wrong. Picking pumpkin seeds out of Henry Fogg’s garden one by one wrong.

“A good one!” Julia insists. She leans forward, and stares into Quentin’s eyes: “Look, Q,” she says, “The way that Marina treated you this morning was awful. She didn’t even let you audition!”

“I know,” Quentin mutters, “I was there.”

“But you don’t understand,” Julia continues, “It’s worse than that. She’d already picked out the new member of the group before auditions even started. Even if you’d been early, there’s no way that you would have been chosen.”

“Is this meant to be making me feel better?”

“And you know what? Screw her. You would have been miserable working with her Quentin, you really would.”

“So you’re saying that I’ve had a lucky escape,” Quentin says.

“Wait, are you guys talking about Marina Andrieski? Because shit guys, I was in school with her and hell yeah you’ve had a lucky escape.”

Josh’s bright voice cuts through the sound of the bar, and all three of them turn to look at him. He’s carrying a Tupperware in one hand, and a glass filled with cherries in the other, and Fen is trailing along behind him, also carrying a glass of cherries.

“Hah,” he says self-consciously as they all continue to stare at him, “I er. Come bearing gifts?” He thrusts the Tupperware forward, and then brandishes the cherries awkwardly: “Not these though. I mean, I just got given these when I said I was coming over to sit at your table.”

“What are they?” Julia asks, because she is probably the one (1) functioning member of society currently present at their table.

“Cranberry, pecan, and white chocolate cookies?”

“Oooh!” Julia makes gimme motions at the box, and Quentin isn’t quite sure how it happens, but he blinks and the next moment the Tupperware is open, and Julia’s cheeks are bulging like a chipmunk. She has a blissful look on her face, not an unusual reaction when it comes to experiencing Hoberman baked goods for the first time. 

“They are good, aren’t they?” Fen says, dragging a chair over to their table and sitting down, depositing her cherry glass next to Quentin. He grabs it and starts to morosely eat the cherries one by one. That…totally counts as carbs, right? To soak up the alcohol? It’s food, anyway. Julia narrows her eyes at him, as if she can tell what he’s thinking, and slides the Tupperware over to him, glaring until he takes a cookie and reluctantly starts nibbling on it.

That turns out to be some kind of signal, because then Josh is sitting down as well (and passing his own cherry glass over to Quentin) and everyone is exchanging pleasantries in soft voices, and then reaching in and taking a cookie. A contented silence falls as they all eat. And…it’s good. Annoyingly, it’s really good.

“They’re condolence cookies,” Fen says to Quentin, eyes wide and earnest, “Because you look upset.”

“Jeez, Fen,” Josh mutters, “You’re not really supposed to tell Quentin that.”

She frowns at him. “Why not?” she asks, “They are condolence cookies.”

“Because, I don’t know!” Josh throws up his hands, “You just don’t! You just push them over and nod in commiseration or something, and then change the subject and distract him.”

Penny glances down at his cookie in sudden alarm, and with exaggerated caution places it down on the table. “This is a normal cookie, isn’t it?” he asks warily.

“What?” Josh says.

“I mean…there’s nothing distracting in here, is there?”

A moment of blank incomprehension. Then Josh starts laughing: “Dude,” he says, “No. That stuff is weekend only: Fen would totally kill me if I brought my er, special, cookies out. But if you want to sample my artistry for yourself…hit me up in a couple of weeks, after the Christmas extravaganza.”

Urgh. The Christmas extravaganza. And more importantly, Deck the Mall. Quentin groans, and his head flops forward until it hits the worryingly sticky surface of the table.

“Is he ok?” Josh asks.

“Does he look ok?” Penny asks, voice heavy with irony.

Julia speaks firmly over Josh’s spluttering apologies and Fen’s pacifying words: “That’s why I asked you to meet me here.” She paused, “Well, that’s why I asked Penny and Q to meet me here, but you’ve pretty much bought your way in with cookies, so I guess you guys are good too? What?” she adds defensively, although nobody has said anything, “I’m easily bribed with baked goods.”

“What has this got to do with Marina Andrieski,” Josh asks suspiciously, “Because, and I say this with all due respect and all, but I don’t want to be anywhere near that bitch. Ever. Sharing a classroom was perilous enough: I don’t want to push my luck any further.”

“Josh!” Fen says reproachfully, “I’m sure that she’s not that bad.”

“No,” Julia says, “She’s definitely a bitch.”

“Seconded,” Penny says.

“Thirded?” Quentin agrees, finally sitting back up again and frowning when he realised there’s now a sticky patch on his forehead.

“I’ve been part of the Snow Belles for eight months,” Julia said, “And Marina…she’s killing the group. She doesn’t care about anything apart from lording it over us all and getting one good performance in front of a talent scout do that she can be ‘discovered’.”

“That sounds like her,” Josh says glumly, “I still remember what she was like during group projects at school.”

“Just quit,” Penny says, shrugging, “If you hate it so much.”

“I could,” Julia says, “But then who would be your woman on the inside?”

“Wait, what?” Quentin has a bad feeling about this.

Julia smiles, and Quentin feels a chill run down the back of his neck, pooling in his stomach. Oh god. He knows that smile.

“I have,” Julia says, “A plan.”


	3. 11 Days Until Deck the Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title image uses a stock photo: "Christmas Candy Canes" by Petr Kratochvil  
> https://www.publicdomainpictures.net/en/view-image.php?image=28435&picture=christmas-candy-canes

He is never drinking on a weekday ever again. Never. Quentin shifts slightly as the sun catches in his eyes, and he groans. Next to him, Penny shoots him a smug look and Quentin glares weakly back. Fucking Penny and his fucking amazing alcohol tolerance.

“Hey, you were the one who didn’t want to drink the Lucozade,” Penny says.

“Just because I can’t chug, like, a couple of pints of chemicals before bed doesn’t make me weak,” Quentin says.

“No, it just makes you a lightweight.”

“Although I hate to agree with Benny,” comes a smooth drawl from behind him, and Quentin gives a small eep (Penny looks disgusted) and jumps, spinning around to see Eliot standing there and looking deeply, deeply unimpressed.

Impeccably dressed as always, but there’s something…Maybe the almost imperceptible smudge of sugar high on his cheek. Or the slight shaking of his hands, something that Quentin is horrible and intimately familiar with from years and years of sleepless nights and endless energy drinks. But…Eliot looks tired. That doesn’t stop him from being kind of an ass though.

“If you’re going to be stupid enough to be hungover at work, then you deserve to suffer the consequences,” he says, then pauses.

After an awkward moment, Quentin realises what he wants and hurries to introduce himself: “Oh! I’m er. Quentin! I mean. Um. Quentin Coldwater?”

“What kind of name is Quentin Coldwater? No, don’t answer that, I don’t really care. We have the contract of a lifetime coming up in ten days, and if you fuck this up for me Coldwater, I will personally shove a cheap bottle of tequila so far up your-”

“Eliot!” Fen appears at his side, and gently touches his shoulder. Eliot deflates, and he’s lost that acerbic, angry edge and has just gone back to looking tired. He sighs, looks down at Fen and his face imperceptibly softens.

“Just-just don’t do it again,” he says, “And get back to work.”

And then he lets Fen guide him away.

“…did that dick just call me Benny?”

“At least he kind of knew your name?”

#

_Fillory inc_ usually shuts down at 5:30, employees quietly turning off computers and returning home to watch tv or drink or look after their kids or whatever it is people do. Quentin’s a bit fuzzy on that? It’s not like he knows anyone really at the company, apart from Penny and maybe Josh and Fen, and all of them are staying behind with him. And Eliot of course, but he knows what Eliot’s doing with his evening: the same thing he always does when they have a big job on. Shutting himself in his office with a bottle of good booze and a pile of work until he gets dragged home by one of his friends. Or so Quentin presumes. The only thing that’s stopping him from suspecting that Eliot sleeps in his office is that he turns up every day wearing a different outfit, although he guesses that it’s equally plausible that he just has a stash of perfectly pressed clothes hidden away in a closet somewhere at work.

By 6, the only people left in the dark building are Quentin, Penny, Fen, and Josh. Josh who’s leading them round the back of the building, his voice rising and falling in a constant stream of chatter: “So technically, I’m not meant to let anyone in here, or really tell them about it? But, I mean, I totally trust you guys and I don’t think that Eliot’s going to fire us-”

“He won’t fire you or Fen,” Penny says, “But he doesn’t even know our names.”

Fen rolls her eyes: “He definitely knows your names,” she mutters.

“And here we are!” Josh speaks loudly over her before Quentin has a chance to ask her what she means. And then he’s staring into the storeroom filled with barrels and boxes and bags and smelling faintly of chocolate.

“There’s not a lot of space?” he says, almost apologetically.

“How much space do we need to rehearse singing anyway?” Josh says, “Not that much compadre. Anyway, this is the best I could do on short notice.”

“It’s fine,” Quentin says, “Yeah, it’s um. Really fine. Thanks Josh.”

The four of them stand awkwardly in the small space for a few seconds, before Penny rolls his eyes and stomps into the room, “Well,” he says, “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Quentin hesitates, and then makes his way over to Penny and sits next to him on a box of…flour? Sugar? Whatever it is, it’s surprisingly comfortable and splinter-free. He takes a deep breath and turns toward them. They’re doing him a huge favour; he should definitely give it his all and try to make this _a Capella_ group work.

“Um,” he says, “Not to put you on the spot guys, but. It would be great if you could sing me a song? Just something simple, like. I mean even Happy Birthday or something. Just to see what we’re dealing with?”

“What about holiday songs?” Fen says, “Wouldn’t it make more sense for us to sing one of those? Since there’s not much time until Deck the Mall: we can see what songs we all know. Plus, it’s festive!”

“Oh,” Quentin says, “That’s…that’s a really good idea Fen.”

Fen beams back at him, bright as a midsummer’s day.

“I know that you don’t really celebrate Christmas,” Fen says apologetically, turning to Josh. Who shrugs at her.

“I don’t really mind,” he says, “It’s not like growing up in America hasn’t shoved the concept of Christmas down my throat every single year, and my family’s pretty secular. Plus, stuffing is fucking delicious, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise. And, hey, I like singing at least. So long as you stay away from the whole ‘Christ Our Saviour’ aspect, I’m good dude.”

“Oh! If. Um, I actually printed off some sheet music this morning before work and we could look through it?” Quentin reaches down and opens his messenger bag, removing a few crumpled sheets that he frantically tries to straighten out.

“So, er. Here. You can take a look and pick one out, and then just. Give it a go.”

“I notice you didn’t ask me what song I wanted to sing,” Penny mutters from the corner of his mouth, giving Quentin a small shove. Quentin rolls his eyes and shoves his back: “You’re forgetting that we shared a room for four years,” he says, “I’ve seen you drunk on eggnog…too many times. I know exactly which Christmas songs you hate and which ones you love.”

Penny narrows his eyes at him: “And which ones did you include in your selection?”

Quentin grins back at him, brief and carefree: “I guess that you’ll have to wait and see.”

#

Fen and Josh are…actually pretty great. Not very polished, but what they lack in finesse they make up for in enthusiasm. They look like they’re having a good time, a fun time. At some point over the last hour, they’ve divided up the different songs that Quentin brought, and now they’re singing them to each other, mock serious, and voting on which one to choose. “It’s the only democratic way!” Fen had said, but there had been laughter in her eyes.

Now boo-ed and much denigrated songs lie around them like scattered leaves from where Penny’s literally thrown each reject over his shoulder, and Quentin’s in front of the three of them, belting out ‘Winter Wonderland’. He’s stopped worrying about whether or not he sounds good, or whether his breath control is right, or even whether he should attempt to hit the high notes. Instead, he’s breathless and red-faced and jumping around like a lunatic and basking in everyone’s laughter.

In a gap between verses, he manages to catch Penny’s eyes, and, with a quick smile, Penny jumps into the song, adding his baritone into the mixture. Fen laughs, high and free, and then joins in as well, hitting the high notes while Josh comes in and adds his boyish tenor to the song.

They finish with a bang, jazz hands out and each of them trying to hold their note the longest (Fen wins which, Quentin has to admit, he was not expecting. She’s so tiny!).

“This one,” he says, still feeling the thrill running through him, “I think we should sing this one.”


	4. 10 Days until Deck the Mall

The initial euphoria of actually having fun singing fades by the next morning, as Quentin realises what he’s committed to. Because, god, he’s started his own group. A group that has him as a leader. Hah- who, er. Who thought that was a good idea?

(All of them. They had all stood there, after practise, and voted him leader. He’s pretty sure that makes them idiots. He ignores the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach).

Groaning, he gets to his feet, wincing at the headache that blooms behind his eyes. Is it possible to have a two-day hangover? Well, if it is, he’s definitely got one. Slouching into the kitchen he shoves a mug of water into the microwave to boil, dumping a couple of spoons of instant coffee into it.

He chokes on the sip. Urgh, disgusting. At least he feels more awake now. Grimacing at the taste and ignoring the fact that the coffee is scorching his tongue (although maybe that’s for the best, killing his taste buds off) he finishes the cup in painful gulps. He switches on the TV as he gets dressed: his phone is still out of commission, and this is still the best way to check out the weather forecast without having to resort to google.

The tv flickers on to a local news channel, and Quentin lets the, slightly annoying, voice of local news anchor Tick Pickwick wash over him. It’s while he’s brushing his teeth that he hears her. Marina.

“…and of course, I’m so happy to welcome the newest member of the Snow Belles to our ranks,” she says. She’s being interviewed outside Brakebills mall, dressed in a well-cut black trench coat and a tight black dress, both of which look nowhere near warm enough for the weather outside. Marina doesn’t seem to care though. Her sleek brown hair is hanging in shining waves over her shoulders and she keeps fiddling with it, in between flashing Tick megawatt smiles.

“Was it a hard decision, choosing the unprecedented first male member of the Snow Belles since their founding forty years ago?”

Marina laughs, and Quentin wants to throw something at the television. He’s stopped brushing and is moving closer and closer to watch the interview, toothbrush hanging forgotten in his mouth.

“Not at all!” she says, “As soon as I saw Ess, I knew that we had to have him. Not to mention his singing, of course.”

Tick gives a tittering laugh, and Quentin can feel his fists clenching at his side. Ess? She chose Ess over him? He had seen Ess play Javert in their high school production of Les Misérables, and while he had a decent enough singing voice, he also had pretty terrible stage fright. He had just stood there, stiff as a rod as the guy playing Valjean (whose name Quentin couldn’t remember, only that he had been a glasses-wearing beanpole who was also totally unsuited for Valjean as he was described in the book, but at least had a good voice and a great sense of drama) had eventually had to literally pull him off the stage after him during the ‘Confrontation’ scene when he had frozen.

Literally everyone at school had known that the only reason he had got the part on the first place was because his father, Idri, is a famous Hollywood producer. He’s worked with all the greats, Spielberg, Lucas, Tarantino… and eventually retired and set up his own production company, _Loria International_. Always interested in ‘fostering a love of the arts in the next generation (according to his Times magazine interview of March 2011, the one that was repeated all over town the moment it hit the shelves) and he was the single largest donor behind most of the drama programmes at the local high school. Including the musical society. Nepotism at its finest.

So, unless Ess has dramatically changed in the past seven years, Quentin can’t really see him wanting to be part of a small town _a Capella_ group.

Not like Quentin. Who wanted it so badly that he could literally feel it, a jittery scratching down the back of his neck and a mental refrain of _do better do better do better_.

Marina must be getting something out of this. And with a sinking feeling Quentin thinks he knows what it might be. Idri. Ess is her gateway to Idri, and the stardom that she so desperately wants. He never had a chance. None of them did.

“And before we go back to the studio, is there anything else you want to say to our viewers?”

“Just this,” Marina stares straight at the camera, and Quentin can’t help but feel that she’s staring down at him, specifically, “We’re looking forward to seeing all of you at the Deck the Mall celebration this Christmas Eve. This year is shaping up to be our most successful year yet!”

#

By the time the workday is over, Quentin is…he’s done, ok? The reality has sunk in, the rose-tinted spectacles have been firmly removed, and the glass is most definitely half empty. It doesn’t help that Penny has been sent off to check the wiring at Brakebills Mall on short notice, and therefore has been out all day leaving Quentin to struggle through the intricacies of human interaction alone. Moments like that have always given him a lot of time to think things over (and he’s not brooding, ok, no matter what Julia says).

He’s kidding himself. Julia made a mistake, and they’re not ready to do this, to challenge Marina and her (maybe?) corporate backers.

He manages to get through the rehearsal that evening in a daze, thoughts spiralling around his head in broken fractals. They’ve started to get down to the nitty-gritty of it all, sounding out each of their parts and, with the help of a keyboard app on Quentin’s phone, making sure that they all know what they should be singing individually before putting it all together. It’s annoying, technical work, nothing like the shared exuberance of the night before, but no one complains at least. And Josh brings cookies, so there’s that.

“Hey,” Fen says as they’re all packing up to leave, “Josh and I were going to have a drink down at the _Wandering Dune_ , if you guys want to join us?”

“It’ll be fun,” Josh says, “Let our hair down. Plus! And, this is important, no work tomorrow. No matter how badly Eliot wants us to.”

“Josh,” Fen chides, laughing, “He’s just stressed.”

“No, I agree with Hoberman,” Penny says, “He’s being a grade A dick.”

Quentin pauses listening to them all talk, their voices flowing over him. Honestly, all he wants to do is get back home and collapse into bed. Make himself a bowl of sugary cereal and eat it dry (he’s out of milk again) sat in front of his laptop watching stupid cat videos on YouTube.

“Sorry,” he says, giving an awkward wave when the next break in the conversation comes, “I’ve er. Got plans. You guys go on though.”

Penny is looking at him with an expression that Quentin can’t read, and he just shakes his head back at him. After a long minute when he’s afraid that Penny’s going to drag him out to socialise, willing or not, he nods at him.

“Do you need a ride back?” he asks.

Quentin’s breath burst out in a relieved laugh: “No,” he says, “I’ll just walk back. It’s, um, it’s only twenty minutes and it’s not too late.”

Josh snorts, and comes over, clapping a companionable hang on his shoulder: “Not like there’s any crime worth mentioning anyway.”

“But you’ll text us when you get home, right?” Fen asks, and Quentin’s hand instinctively slips down into his pocket where his phone is. The phone that he accidentally trashed, that he hasn’t dared to turn on in case it is broken. Shit. “I, er,” he says, “I actually don’t really have a phone at the moment? But it’ll be fine: I’ve walked home from work literally dozens of times, and nothing bad’s ever happened. The worse thing was when I saw um, old man Umber? Just. Urinating off the shady bridge.”

Quentin stops, a little self-conscious. Everyone is staring at him.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to walk home with you?” Fen asks.

“Positive,” Quentin says, quickly gathering his things, “Look, I’ll see you all tomorrow, yeah?”

“You can come around to our house for practise!” Fen says, beaming at him, “We can have an entire day’s worth of rehearsal, and then make cocktails and sing bad karaoke.”

Quentin has got no idea how she can still be so bubbly after such a long day.

“Yeah,” he says instead, “That’ll be…that sounds great.”

“Not too early though,” Josh says, “Because I fully intend on getting drunk tonight. Super drunk. So drunk the whole town will remember it.”

Quentin makes a non-committal noise and flees before they can ask him to join them again. It’s only as he’s shivering outside and pulling his probably not warm enough coat around him that he realises that he never got Fen’s address from her. But the thought of going back inside…he can sort it out tomorrow. Maybe just get Penny to give him a ride.

It really is only a twenty-minute walk back to his place, and it’s along the well-lit main road which, while annoying and time consuming when driving at rush hour, is pretty good at any other time. As he trudges along, debating on whether to put in his earphones or not, he ignores the numerous bars and restaurants that are lit up with light and laughter, filled with people celebrating the end of the work week. He ignores them, hurrying onward.

BAM

“Fuck!”

A motorcyclist dressed in bright red and white veers in front of him, and it’s only Quentin’s reflexes, shitty as they are, that stop him from tumbling into the road and probably, like, scraping his knees or something. A truck rushes past and he flinches. Or getting stuck in the hospital and having to pay off medical bills for the next three years or so thanks to his shitty insurance.

He stands there for longer than he cares to admit, heart pounding in his chest. Next to him, the patrons of _Whitespire_ roar in approval at something and he jumps, panicked. Ok, fuck, there’s no way that he’s going to be able to get back to his house without, like, falling over something. And there’s no way that he wants to die through excessive jumpiness, that would just be embarrassing. He slips into _Whitespire_ and makes his way to the bar, trying to avoid the crush of people who are congregated around a small stage watching- he squints. Watching what looks like an amateur open mic night.

“Could I have a glass of water, please?” he asks the bartender, who raises one bushy eyebrow at him, but slides the drink across the bar nonetheless. Yeah. Just a few minutes here and then he can get back home.

The current act, singing a very lacklustre Beyoncé cover, finally finishes and the MC comes out on stage.

“And let’s give a round of applause for our very own Pete Call!”

There’s a polite smattering of applause, enough to satisfy Pete who bows and leaves the stage. But then people start to lean forward in anticipation, something that the MC doesn’t let go unremarked: “And I see that you’re all ready for our next act!” she says, “The last of the evening and I think you all know that we have definitely saved the best for last. Before I introduce him, I’d just like to say a huge thanks to _Whitespire_ and particularly Humbledrum for hosting us again this evening: Humbledrum, we couldn’t do it without you!”

There’s a more enthusiastic round of applause, and behind Quentin, Humbledrum raises a hand in acknowledgement, a slight blush on his cheeks.

“Thanks Fray,” he manages to yell back before busying himself with polishing a spotlessly clean glass.

“He’s such a sweetheart,” the MC says, “But not the guy you’re all here to see this evening, right? At least if you are, we’re going to have to have some words!”

She waits until the round of jeering settles down and then, with mock solemnity she begins to introduce the, apparently, star act. Quentin leans forward despite himself, eager to see who exactly is going to be performing.

“He’s a man of mystery,” Fray says, lowering her voice, “Who knows what he does or who he is, or even what his name is? Is he a secret agent? A former child pop star? Who knows? And honestly, with a voice like that, who cares?”

Loud shouts, whoops, one guy at the front wolf whistles. Quentin blinks. Who is this guy?

“But I can see you’re impatient for us to begin! So, put your hands together for our very own, High King of Whitespire!”

The lights dim until the stage is all shadows and an expectant hush falls. Once the bar is quiet music starts to ring out, nothing that Quentin is familiar with but with a strong, almost pop-y beat. And then he appears. The High King of Whitespire, whatever that means.

And…wow. Quentin isn’t expecting that. Because he’s wearing an incredibly short denim skirt and jacket, blond hair in messy pigtails, face perfectly made up with dark, dramatic mascara and eyeshadow, lips painted a dark, dangerous red.

“What the hell,” Quentin whispers to himself. And then the singing starts. And…oh god. Because this isn’t just an open mic act. This is…this is probably art? The guy on stage, the way that he’s singing, going from a high feminine falsetto down to a deep growl that hits Quentin somewhere that he doesn’t want to admit exists…shit this is really sexy? He’s learning things about himself that he doesn’t want to? But oh god. Because at that moment the guy catches his eye and gives him a truly dirty lascivious smile and a lick of his lips that should be illegal oh my god. On autopilot, Quentin’s hand dips into his pocket and removes his poor battered phone and, for the first time in the past couple of days, turns it on.

After a couple of minutes, it splutters on. Quentin doesn’t even bother to unlock it, just swiping left to get up the camera feature and raising it numbly to eye height, pressing record. It’s easier to think now that there’s an additional layer between him and the High King.

It doesn’t protect him against his voice though. His voice that is honey-rich, curling around the room and sinking deep into his bones.

With one final growl, the song ends, and the room erupts into raucous applause. The High King doesn’t bow like Pete did, no he just stalks offstage leaving his adoring audience wanting.

Who is that guy? Why hasn’t he heard of him before? And god. His voice. He’s never heard a voice like that before. Quentin’s heart is pounding and his hands are sweaty and he knows with a deep certainty that sometime during his performance he’s made up his mind.

The MC bounds back onto stage.

“That was ‘Sugar Daddy’ from _Hedwig and the Angry Inch_!” she announces. She keeps going, thanking everyone for coming and, from the reaction of the audience, making several dirty jokes, but Quentin isn’t listening. Instead he’s slipping through the crowd unnoticed and making his way to the back of the stage, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible.

He’s lucky, he guesses, or the effort that he puts into being forgettable in everyday life has finally paid off, because nobody stops him, and he managed to make it to a small door with a paper sign reading ‘green room’ on it. Placing a hand on the doorknob, he hesitates a moment. Is he really going to do this? Yes. He is. He opens it with more force than intended and the door bangs against the opposite wall.

“Well, someone’s eager,” drawls a voice from within, not bothering to turn around and Quentin’s breath catches because the blond wig is lying discarded to the side revealing dark, sweat-drenched curls plastered to the side of his elegant neck. His jacket has also been shed, and he’s half naked oh god this was the worst idea, why did he think this was a good idea-

“I- I,” he stutters, and the High King turns to look at him, eyes hooded and a small smile stretching his lips.

“…Eliot?” Quentin says, because he knows that face, able to recognise it through the layers of make-up because he’s spent an embarrassingly long time staring at it ever since he started at _Fillory inc_.

The smile has vanished from Eliot’s face.

“Coldwater,” he says brusquely, and then makes an imperious gesture. “Close the door.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf on top of being stupid? Close the door.”

Quentin does so, and then resumes staring at Eliot. Who’s still glaring at him.

“I- I um,” Quentin says, “I didn’t know that you sang?”

Inwardly, he winces at the inanity of the sentence. I didn’t know you sang? What sort of question was that.

“Evidentially,” Eliot drawls and then when Quentin fails to react, resumes changing out of his costume and into the perfectly pressed vest and slacks that he habitually wears.

Quentin can’t do anything but stare, mesmerised, at his pale skin, guiltily looking away once Eliot, finished dressing, sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Do you want something Coldwater,” he says flatly, reaching for his coat and scarf, “Or can we just go back to ignoring each other at work on Monday?”

“I want you to join my _a Cappella_ group,” Quentin blurts out all at once.

“…pardon?”

“I’ve er. Started an _a Cappella_ group? For the holidays? With er. Penny and Fen and Josh, and we’re planning on performing a holiday song? For Deck the Mall?”

“How nice for you,” Eliot says, “Have a good time with that.”

And then he reaches past Quentin to open the door.

“No, wait!” Quentin says, and in his panic he actually takes hold of Eliot’s wrist. It’s warm under his palm, his skin soft and smooth.

“Please,” he says, “We need you. I. I just-the Snow Belles are awful, and we need to beat them at Deck the Mall, and we’re not ready but with you we could win, and-”

He’s babbling he realises with a mounting horror. The plan had made so much more sense when Julia had been the one explaining it.

“Let me get this straight,” Eliot says, “You want me to join your little boy band to sing at Deck the Halls, a week before the biggest event that my company has ever had to tackle. Because of some inane rivalry? That you can’t even vocalise properly?” He sneers, looking down at Quentin past his fine nose: “Can you even sing?”

And. Fuck. The insults hits, more than Eliot probably meant it to, lodging itself under his breast and melding seamlessly with both his own self-doubt and the scattered barbs and disappointed comments that his mom used to make under her breath when he’d fucked up yet another audition. Fuck that.

“You are going to join my group,” Quentin says, determination rising in him, “Because if you don’t then I’ll post the video I took of you doing your little routine on YouTube. And I’d like to see what your customers think of _that_.”

Eliot freezes. Because he knows as well as Quentin that small-town America is pretty damn conservative. And that their client list has enough trouble getting over the fact that _Fillory inc_ is headed by a gay CEO. He doesn’t know what their reaction would be if it turned out that he was a gay, crossdressing, and showtunes-singing CEO.

“So,” Eliot says softly, and his face has gone dangerously hard, “Kitty cat has claws.”

Quentin swallows. Hard. And, no, don’t think about hard. Don’t.

“I promise that I’ll delete it as soon as the performance is over,” he says, “But- I’m sorry? But this is important.”

Eliot steps closer, looming over him until Quentin can practically feel his breath on his cheek.

“And what’s to stop me from firing you right here and now for blackmail?” he says softly.

Quentin blanches. He’s…look he should be afraid right now. He’s blackmailing his boss, the boss who thinks that he’s pretty useless, who’s just threatened to fire him because, once again he’s _blackmailing him_ … But all he can think about is how close he is, and how his eyes, still ringed with eyeliner and mascara, are staring at him as though they can see into his very soul…

“Nothing,” he says, “But…I don’t think that you will.”

Eliot arches a brow, and Quentin isn’t jealous, he isn’t because he definitely hasn’t practised that move in front of a mirror a thousand times only for it always look as though he’s slightly cross-eyed: “Because,” he continues desperately, the words tripping out of his mouth faster and faster, “You can’t risk it. You need the custom and you need the Christmas extravaganza to succeed, and if you fire me then Penny’ll probably quit as well and you might be able to find someone to replace me, but him? He’s the only one who knows how the sound system works.” Quentin gulps. There’s an inscrutable look on Eliot’s face, but at least he doesn’t look like he’s planning where to hide the body anymore.

“Fine,” Eliot says, stepping back and out of Quentin’s personal space, and like that the tension vanishes and he can let out the breath that he must have been holding, “When’s your next rehearsal?”

“Tomorrow,” Quentin says, not quiet daring to believe that it’s worked, “At Fen’s house. Um. I’m not sure when exactly, but probably in the afternoon? Sometime?”

Eliot nods at him: “I won’t perform in your little group,” he says, “But if you’re the leader then it’s probably in dire need of some decent choreography. I’ll see you tomorrow, Coldwater.”

And then he sweeps out of the room. The door slams shut behind him, and Quentin is left, flustered and disbelieving and feeling as if he’s just like, run a marathon or something, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“I’m so fucked,” he whispers to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The motorcyclist was totally Santa 😜


	5. 9 Days until Deck the Mall

Fen’s house is big. Really big. That’s the first impression he has of it as he and Penny pull up the next day, squinting against the sunlight. It’s two stories, with a pretty little backyard and a shed that…seems to be smoking? Quentin’s pretty sure it’s meant to be doing that?

The front door, painted a cheery yellow, bursts open and Fen is rushing out to greet them: “Penny! Quentin!” she says, “You made it!”

“Didn’t you say that you all got stupidly drunk last night?” Quentin mutters to Penny, waving weakly back at Fen.

“We did,” Penny mutters back, “We drank a shit-ton. I think she’s just like that.”

“Come in!” she says, ushering them out of the car and through the door, “Eliot’s already here, and why didn’t you tell me that you were recruiting him for the group, Quentin? I can’t believe I didn’t think of it! Eliot loves singing!”

Quentin, who had been looking around the house and marvelling at the mixture of delicate embroidery and various sharp daggers displayed on the wall, turns his head so quickly that there’s a click to look at Eliot.

“Well, let’s not get rid of all my mystique just yet,” He says, getting up from where he’d been lounging on the couch, immaculately clad in yet another vest, this one a deep navy (and how many of those does he have?), “After all, it’s only the first date.”

“You came,” Quentin says, because despite the blackmail and the fact that Eliot had said that he would be here…honestly, he didn’t think that he’d turn up. That his bluff had failed and that he’d walk into work Monday morning to find that he’d been fired. And maybe assassinated.

“A deal’s a deal,” Eliot says flippantly, a strange smile at his lips, “You’re just lucky that you’re cute, Coldwater.”

Quentin’s mouth makes a choked sound, against his own better judgement and he can practically feel Penny’s eye roll next to him.

“My dudes!” Josh comes on from another room, probably the kitchen? From the delicious smalls wafting out behind him it’s probably the kitchen and embraces them both. He smells like spices and gingerbread, and Quentin’s actually pretty surprised at how alert he looks.

“I’ve been making some more cookies,” he says, “Trying to get that recipe perfect for the Christmas extravaganza. Two birds, one stone and all that.” He winks at them, “I thought you guys could be my taste testers!”

He grins at Eliot, familiar and lazy and gives him a mock salute: “Can’t go slacking off now the boss is here.”

To Quentin’s surprise, and completely at odds with all the shouting that comes from the catering department at _Fillory inc_ whenever Eliot wanders down to check on how the food is coming along, Eliot just hums indulgently at Josh and wanders into the kitchen. He emerges a few seconds later, chewing something with a thoughtful look on his face: “Too much nutmeg,” he says, “What are you trying to do, poison me?”

“Which one did you try?” Josh asks.

Eliot shrugs.

“The first one I saw,” he says, “It was on one of the wire racks.”

“Honestly,” Josh says, “No respect for the scientific process, any of you.”

“That’s what we have you for,” Fen says, pressing a kiss to Josh’s cheek before wandering into the kitchen for her own cookie. She really is the nice one, though, because she comes back out with a plate piled high with cookies, each with a little hand-written number on them.

“I hope you remember which wire rack is which,” she says to Josh, “Because I stole the signs you made. For science!”

Josh mock-glares at for a minute, before cracking and laughing, breaking off a piece of cookie and popping it in his mouth. He chokes and spits it out.

“Urgh,” he says, “Definitely not dates and soy sauce.”

“Have we slipped into some weird alternate universe?” Penny says, “Like, I can buy the fact that Eliot isn’t a complete douchebag. I mean, nobody can be that much of an ass 100% of the time, they’d strain something. You two-” he points at Josh and Fen, “-engaging in a little inter-company romance? Yeah, sure, whatever, continue being disgusting. But dates and soy sauce in a cookie? Hoberman, how dare you.”

Fen bursts out into peals of laughter: “I wish that Margo was here,” she said.

“Margo would eat you up and spit you out,” Eliot says, “Offense fully intended, Penny. Honestly, she would chew all of us up.”

He looks incredibly fond, his face soft and open and Quentin can’t bear it. He really can’t.

“Should we get on with rehearsing then?” he asks, overloud.

Eliot’s attention snaps back to Quentin and again, it feels like he’s being drawn in, that there’s magnets or some shit like that forcing him inexorably closer. Or maybe even a black hole: just, impossible to escape…

“Yes, let’s,” Eliot, and there’s no other word for it, purrs, “I’m looking forward to seeing what I’m working with.”

#

“This might be more difficult than I thought,” Eliot says.

At some point over the last few hours, he unbuttoned his vest, leaving is to hang open on his slim frame, and his normally perfectly coiffed hair is sticking up at odd angles from where he’s been running his hands through it. It’s the most dishevelled that Quentin’s ever seen him, and wow. Just when he thought he couldn’t get even hotter. Focus Coldwater.

“You’re not hopeless at singing but you lack…style. You have next to no choreography, and no I don’t count jazz hands as choreography. Just…how did none of you think of this.”

Eliot moves, walking over to where the four of them are standing, and starts to position them, moving them as easily and dispassionately as mannequins. His hands are incredibly warm, and Quentin can feel their heat seep through the material of his shirt. He holds as still as possible and tries not to flinch. He doesn’t know if he succeeds.

“Quentin is the face of your group,” he says, “So he should be here. At the front. Not hiding away stage left, or whatever you were trying to achieve, Coldwater.” He runs a hand through Quentin’s hair, so quickly that for a moment he thinks that he’s imagined it: only Penny mouthing ‘what the fuck’ beside him convinces him that Penny’s frequent claims that they’ve fallen sideways into an alternate timeline haven’t finally been proven correct.

“Fen, love,” he says, and Quentin represses a shudder as he walks away, “You come here.” He guides her over to stand slightly behind and to the right of Quentin, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead: “We need to give the masses something nice to look at, hmm? Charm them.”

Penny and Josh are furthest back and flank the other two: “It’s a pity that there aren’t five of you,” Eliot regarding them with a critical eye, “But alas. I have to work with what I have.”

“You could always perform with us,” Quentin says, “I um. I mean that way everything would be balanced, and we’d get some more high notes in here?”

Immediately, Eliot’s face hardens.

“That’s not part of the deal,” he says shortly. He turns around jerkily: “You continue actually learning your song, and I’ll sort out some choreography tomorrow. We can go over it Monday after work.”

“Wait,” Quentin says, stumbling out of the pose that Eliot had put him in guiltily, feeling as if he had done something wrong: “You don’t have to leave yet! We were going to have, erm, cookies. And think up a name.”

Eliot stops short, affront written in every line of his body.

“You haven’t managed to find yourselves a name yet? That’s pretty fundamental, Q.”

And, oh. Because- because no one calls him Q. No one apart from Julia. And he’s pretty sure that Eliot hates him. Hell: he’s not even really called him by his first name yet, not directly. So that one letter that’s slipped through his lips: it’s like a thunderbolt straight to the chest.

“I-” he manages to stutter out.

Eliot looks over at him, not unkindly.

“I’ll see you all on Monday,” he says, and leaves.

“I should go as well,” Quentin says quickly, “I’ve erm. I’ve got a big day tomorrow and I need to prepare.”

Penny, who looked as if he was going to object to Quentin running out on them yet again, pauses. “Your meeting with Alice is tomorrow,” he says instead, “That’s-that’s rough dude.”

“Yeah, well,” Quentin says, carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes, “She’s in charge of the mall now, since Zelda retired. So.”

“Who’s Alice?” Fen whispers to Josh, and Quentin pretends not to hear her.

“His ex,” Josh murmurs back, completely audibly, and Quentin resumes gathering his papers and notes as quickly as possible, “They had a bad break up back in High School.”

“I’ll see you all tomorrow!” Quentin yells, and then he flees.

And then has to wait by the car for an hour because he, and Penny, forgot that Penny had given him a lift to Fen’s house. Thank god for his emergency copy of the _Hobbit_.


	6. 8 Days until Deck the Malls

Brakebills Mall is a beautiful building, built in a weird, pretentious style that makes it look like it’s been transported from, like, Oxford or something. All grassy courtyards and graceful arches that stand half-decorated with tasteful gold and red baubles that Quentin half-remembers Todd giving a presentation on a couple of days ago.

He stands at the entrance to the mall for longer than he cares to admit, hesitating on the threshold. It’s not that he and Alice had a particularly bad break up…Ok, that’s a lie. There’s a reason that they haven’t spoken face to face for five years, and if he’s honest with himself that reason is probably Quentin. After Charlie’s disappearance… The thing that he regrets most about the way that they broke up is that their friendship was ruined at the same time. Now they send an awkward Facebook message on birthdays, and just generally ignore each other. Until now.

“Are you going to stand outside all day?”

“Oh,” Quentin says, slowly turning around, “Hey Vix.”

He winces, and then tries to hide it. Alice doesn’t notice, or at least she pretends not to. She looks good, happy and healthy in a way that she hadn’t the last time he’d seen her. Mind, the last time he’d seen her, her eyes had been red from crying and her hair had been dull and tangled.

“Quentin,” she says politely, and then there’s an awkward silence. After a minute or so, Alice clears her throat: “Come into my office,” she says, “We can speak there.”

She strides off and Quentin trails behind silently. Which is, like, a pretty good metaphor for their relationship as a whole: Alice was always the one who know what she was doing. As he walks through the mall, he can’t help but notice how different it is from the last time he’d been here. It must have been what, a couple of years at least? In the few months since Zelda’s retirement, Alice has revamped Brakebills mall completely: while it was always vaguely stuffy and pretentious before, now it’s got a comfortable vibe. Small cafés and restaurants are scattered amongst the larger chain stores, and every now and then Quentin can spot a large, blue-painted phone box containing shelves and shelves of second-hand books, all free to borrow and free to donate to.

Alice’s office is located on the second floor, next to the babbling fountain with the large book statue in the middle of it. It’s a nice room, welcoming almost, but as Quentin sits down all he can think is that he’s been sent to the Principal’s office for some offence that he can’t even remember. Alice has always made him feel a bit like that: probably another reason their relationship didn’t work out, come to think of it.

He sits down and Alice pushes a glass of water at him: automatically he raises it to his lips and takes a sip: it’s peppermint flavoured, which, festive??

“I’m er,” he says, “I’m here to speak to you about Deck the Mall?”

“Quentin,” Alice says, “I know what you’re here for. Julia told me.”

“Oh,” Quentin says useless, “I- Julia told you? Wait, you and Julia-”

“Are friends,” Alice says firmly, resolutely not looking down at the desk and with a faint pink colouring her neck.

“That’s-” Quentin says, “Good?”

Alice glares at him.

“Anyway,” she says barrelling past the awkwardness, “I don’t think it’s a good idea. You versus Marina? No offense, Q, but she’s had literal years at this, and you’ve just put together a new group, what, today?”

Quentin flushes: “Thursday, actually,” he says.

Alice rolls her eyes: “Exactly. You have no chance at beating her. But,” and her perfectly straight posture loosens slightly as she leans forward, “I think that opening up Deck the Malls to more groups is a good idea. More inclusive, less the one-woman Marina show. So I’m going to make it into a competition: the day before Deck the Mall, I’m going to put on a talent competition here at Brakebills. God knows we have enough frustration wannabe _X-Factor_ contestants in this town.”

“That sounds, fair,” Quentin says, “But erm. What’s the prize?”

“Singing at Deck the Mall,” Alice says. Obviously, she doesn’t say but her expression speaks volumes.

“But-” Quentin says, hesitating, “Um. You’re saying that the prize for winning the singing competition, which is taking place at Brakebills, is…singing at Brakebills the next day? What’s- what’s the point?”

Alice narrows her eyes at him.

“The point, Quentin,” she hisses, “Is that a lot of people, and not just your little boy band-”

“We’re not really a boy band,” Quentin mutters quietly.

“-will get a chance to perform. A chance that they wouldn’t otherwise have.”

“That’s good,” he says, “But um. It means that we’re going to have to beat a lot more people?”

“What were you expecting, Quentin,” she says, “That I’d set up a little tête-à-tête between you and the Snow Belles, and you’d get to live out your frustrated fantasies? No, not even your fantasies. Your mother’s fantasies. Because God forbid that Quentin Coldwater isn’t the centre of the Universe.”

“That’s not fair,” Quentin says, “I- you know how much this means to me, Alice!”

She stares up at him from where he has half risen in his seat.

“You’re lucky that Julia’s a friend,” she says flatly. She grabs a piece of paper from her desk and thrusts it at Quentin. Looking down he can see that it’s a sign-up form. “Here,” she says, “Get it back to me before Wednesday evening or you won’t be able to perform. Good luck.”

And then she stands up and sweeps out of her office, leaving Quentin alone with his thoughts, clutching a piece of paper.

“Well shit,” he says. That could have gone so much better.

#

The rest of the group take the news that they’re not just going up against the Snow Belles, but also a potentially infinite number of groups pretty well.

“It’ll be just like _America’s Got Talent_!” Fen says, beaming, “And I can’t wait to see what everyone has put together. She’s sharpening a dagger as she talks, one that Quentin has learnt that she made herself in the forge in the garden shed (and that explains the smoke that he saw yesterday). She should come off a lot more threatening considering the extremely dangerous weapon she’s making even more dangerous right in front of him, but honestly? She’s got the same sunshine and smiles demeanour as ever.

“Is that a good thing?” Josh says.

“No,” Penny says shortly, but doesn’t elaborate.

“It just means that instead of coming second we’re going to be in like, fifteenth or something,” Quentin says, running his hands through his hair over and over, and wincing when his fingers catch on the numerous knots.

“Well, that’s a very pessimistic outlook,” a voice drawls behind him and looking up, Quentin can see that it’s Eliot. Eliot leaning against the wall looking quietly amused. Eliot who has somehow appeared in the middle of this random Dunkin’ Donuts near Fen’s house where they had met for a frantic emergency debrief because Penny had been craving doughnuts.

(Josh had looked pretty hurt at the insinuation that he couldn’t whip them up for Penny in the kitchen, but behind him Fen had shot them a relieved thumbs up. The stress of the upcoming Christmas extravaganza, not to mention Deck the Halls, was hitting all of them hard in different ways, and Quentin was pretty sure that if Josh had been asked to provide the doughnuts they would have been flavoured with like. Fir pine or something.)

Eliot looks tired, that’s the first thing that Quentin notices. There are bags underneath his eyes and his hair looks…Fine. Average. Not the elaborately styled and tousled work of art that it usually is, no matter if Quentin doesn’t see his office light go off until 10pm, which…is not good.

“Fen texted me,” Eliot says, “Something about an imminent breakdown.”

He takes a sheaf of paper out of the pocket of his stylish peacoat and slams it down in front of Quentin. It’s full of complicated diagrams, colour coded and absolutely covered in carefully formed cursive that, Quentin notices leafing through the stack in slight shock, trails off into a messy scrawl as the pages progress. There are…god, there are actual finger tuts in here, intricate and precise and in excruciating detail. What does Eliot want him to do with his hands?

“You’re not chickening out on me now Coldwater,” Eliot says staring intently at him, “Not when I’ve spent this much time on a kick-ass choreography.”

“This-” Quentin chokes. He touches the pages carefully, reverently, “This is perfect. How did you-?”

Eliot shrugs casually, “Oh you know,” he says, “I had a few spare hours.”

“This must have taken you most of the night,” Quentin says. He looks up and beams, wide and unrestrained, “ _Thank you_.” He puts as much sincerity as possible into those two words, because look. This might be one of the nicest things that anyone has ever done for him? And it’s not even that Eliot really likes him as a person, but he still did it.

Eliot is taken-aback, something like surprise in his eyes before his mask falls back into place.

“Don’t mention it,” he says carelessly, “No really. Don’t. I wouldn’t want my investors to think that I was slacking off to dabble in. Well, whatever this is.”

“Oh god,” Penny groans behind them, “This is physically painful.”

Quentin ignores him. He’s too busy staring at Eliot, trying to impart his gratitude by willpower alone. He’s not going to let him brush this off, because-he’s just not, ok? And for some reason Eliot is looking back at him and the moment stretches on and on, and Quentin’s not sure but be can maybe see something that’s a touch of pink in Eliot’s cheeks…

“We should try this out!”

Fen’s voice breaks the spell and both of them jump and them try to look like they haven’t. Eliot in particular resembles nothing more than a startled tom cat who, caught flat-footed, has now settled himself back against the fence and is giving himself a nice, long wash. Not, he would hesitate to reassure you, because he was scared at all, but because his hygiene standards are excellent, and he would recommend that you spend more time attending to your own fur.

Fen has taken the pages and is looking through them herself, eyes bright and excited: “Eliot, this is amazing!” she says, “This- I think this could really give us the edge we need to win!”

Eliot looks amused, indulgent.

“It’s no Christmas 2017,” Eliot says, “But it’ll do.” The two of them exchange a smile, full of shared reminiscence and somehow even Josh seems to know what they’re talking about??

For one shining, shameful moment, Quentin hates her before he pushes that thought to the back of his head and stamping down on it.

“I can’t wait to have a go at, uh, finger tuts one through twenty-three,” he says injecting as much cheer into his voice as possible, trying to make it sound as enthusiastic as Fen’s. From the look that Penny’s giving him, he isn’t succeeding that well.

“Scared, Coldwater?” Eliot asks, one brow raised as he does something obscene and extremely complicated with his fingers, making what should be a literal finger-breaking exercise look fluid and simple.

Quentin’s eyes narrow.

“You wish.”

Raising his own hands, he squints down at the paper and attempts tut fifteen. He doesn’t dislocate his finger, which he counts as a win because ow is Eliot double-jointed or something?

“Almost,” Eliot says, taking Quentin’s hands between his and gently contorting and positioning his fingers until they look at least slightly more like the drawings, “But I think you’ll find if you relax this joint there-” he gives the relevant joint a small squeeze, “Then it’ll be infinitely easier to-”

“No.”

Following his low pronouncement, Penny storms past them both snatching the choreography on the way past. Quentin and Eliot jump apart (and when did they get so close?) to let him through.

“I’ll see you at Fen’s,” Penny says, “Because there is no way that I’m spending any more time in public with you than necessary.”


	7. 7 Days until Deck the Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title image uses a stock image:"Watercolor Christmas Ice Star 02" by AStoKo  
> https://www . deviantart . com/astoko/art/Watercolor-Christmas-Ice-Star-02-717940490

Quentin doesn’t know what he suspects on Monday morning. So much had happened since last Friday and it’s…kind of amazing? He’s discovered that his boss/crush performs musical theatre at open mic nights (and…he’s not going to lie, there’s a few times over the last few days where he’s just lain in bed, thinking about it despite his best efforts), blackmailed said boss into helping him win an _a Capella_ singing competition hosted by his ex-girlfriend and engineered by his best friend, had his crush deepen uncomfortably into something else by actually spending time with the aforementioned boss…

But yeah. Things. Happening. Time.

So on Monday when he comes in at 9:15, slipping shamefully through the empty corridors and trying to look as if he’s been out on a task, he isn’t sure how to react when he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around to see Eliot. Looking no better rested, but infinitely more put together.

(And…Quentin regrets it? In a weird way? Like, he loves Eliot’s vests and pressed slacks, can’t imagine him without them, but he missed the sight of him, shirt sleeves rolled up and hair mussed, shouting at them that it’s step, step, back, step not step, back, back, step you idiots…yeah. He’s in trouble.)

“Nice of you to finally turn up,” is what he says, stepping backward and striding off: “Follow me.”

Quentin stands dumbly for a few seconds before Eliot’s words catch up with him and he hurries forward. Is he being fired? Or just…dressed down in front of the entire company? As an example of what happens to blackmailers? Has the weekend just been an elaborate way of getting him to lower his guard?

Finally they reach Eliot’s office. Quentin looks around as unobtrusively as possible: it’s…actually pretty similar to Alice’s? All sleek lines and minimalist furniture that doesn’t reveal any of the personality that he knows exists. That he’s seen in unguarded moments. An office that is less a place where an individual might spend upward of eight hours a day, and instead functions as a carefully constructed façade. He…might have a type.

“Close the door,” Eliot says. Quentin does so, a little nervously. Penny is out all day again today, supervising at Brakebills so if he goes missing…it’ll be hours before anyone notices. He hovers, not sure what he should be doing as Eliot starts up his MacBook.

Finally, after leisurely logging in to his computer and- Quentin squints to look at the screen: there’s no way that he’s playing Solitaire, right?- giving a perfunctory look at the pile of mail on his desk, he finally looks up. There’s smile pressing at the side of his mouth, Quentin’s sure of it and his nervousness evaporates. Eliot hasn’t changed, since he last saw him Sunday evening.

“You dick!” he says, “Were you doing that on purpose?”

Eliot smirks at him, and then properly smiles: “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

In a couple of quick strides Quentin crosses the office and stands behind Eliot’s desk, pouring over his shoulder. Eliot doesn’t even try and close his open windows and sure enough- “I knew it! I knew you were playing Solitaire.”

“It’s an integral part of my process,” Eliot says, “Something that you’ll need to learn if you’re going to be my personal assistant.”

“What?”

“I finally put us all out of our misery and fired Todd,” Eliot says, “Congratulations, you have managed to clear the extremely low bar that he left behind.”

“You…is this a promotion?”

Eliot is definitely smirking at him now: “You know what they say,” he says, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

#

Quentin honestly had no idea how much work Eliot did. He groans, slumping down onto a nearby chair (covered in decorative red and gold ribbons that Eliot had pronounced ‘tacky as hell’ and rejected before going on to examine a dozen more similarly decorated chairs) and massaging his feet gingerly.

It’s only 2pm. But he’s so tired he could just slump over now and fall asleep, no matter how uncomfortable this chair is.

After an hour familiarising himself with Eliot’s schedule, they’d then travelled out to the mall to check how the installation was going (Penny had raised his eyebrows at Quentin when he saw them, to which he could only respond to with a shrug), stopped off on the other side of town to talk with some of the catering suppliers (Quentin definitely didn’t keep giving the enormous, room-sized fridge nervous looks as if expecting it to close on them and trap them in that frozen hellhole), returned to Fillory to check that Josh hadn’t exploded the kitchen, and finally gone down to see Rafe in the basement and check on how the decorating was going.

“Tired already?”

Quentin turns a plaintive look up at Eliot and, loath as he is to admit it, whines: “Is this a normal day for you?”

Eliot smiles, amused, and tucks a bit of Quentin’s hair behind his ear. Rafe, a few yards away and hands flying as he tucks and ties and folds the ribbons that Eliot had approved around new, virgin chairs, gives a distinct air of Not Listening to their conversation that speaks as loudly as if he’d been leering at them.

“My sweet summer child,” Eliot drawls, “This? This is nothing.”

Quentin’s heart is beating so quickly that he’s sure that it’s going to burst at any moment. “I-” he says? Stutters really, “This is. Just a lot? I mean, don’t you have people to delegate to?”

Eliot barks out a laugh. “Of course I do,” he says, “The perks of being the boss. But how can I be sure that they’re actually doing their jobs? I employ Todd, after all.”

Quentin laughs along with him, even though he quite likes Todd despite Eliot’s strange animosity toward him. Anyway, he can’t be as bad as Eliot always says because otherwise he wouldn’t have lasted as Eliot’s personal assistant for the past two years. Which actually begs the question…why was he chosen to replace Todd?

“Another prerogative of being the boss,” Eliot announces, grabbing Quentin’s shoulders and marching him out of the door despite his protests and half-hearted complaints about his poor, aching feet, “Getting to take a lunch break whenever I want.”

Before he manages to work out what’s happening, they are out the building and walking briskly down the street, shivering as neither of them have managed to grab their coats.

“Eliot,” Quentin says, “Where are we going?” His teeth are chattering hard and he’s shaking. His hands are shoved underneath his armpits, and he’s fairly certain that’s the only thing preventing them from succumbing to, like, frostbite or something.

There’s no answer, but Eliot abruptly pulls him into a small café and Quentin groans from the delicious, delicious warmth that seeps into his poor, abused body.

(He’s aware that he’s being a bit melodramatic, and simply doesn’t care, thank you very much.)

He’s so busy revelling in being able to feel his toes again that he almost misses Eliot’s attacker. She collides with him in a cloud of expensive perfume and gorgeous hair and Eliot-beams, there’s no other word for it, picking her bodily off the floor and twirling her around in a flurry of skirts. Setting her carefully down, he presses a soft kiss to her forehead, and Quentin-shit. He’s jealous.

“Quentin,” Eliot says, “Margo. The best chef in a thousand-mile radius, not that that’s hard, and our next meeting. Bambi, this is Quentin Coldwater, my new PA.”

Margo gives Quentin a blatant once over, and he has the most uncomfortable feeling of all his secrets being laid bare in front of her. Shit, she looks like she knows that he uses a three-in-one shampoo/shower gel/conditioner and disapproves.

“He’s not that cute,” she says finally, nudging Eliot. He rolls his eyes slips an arm around her, guiding her toward a back room, which by the way he knows where to find??

“He grows on you,” Eliot says, “Like mould.”

“Oh thanks,” Quentin mutters, “That’s just. That’s great.”

The café is pretty damn nice, though, he has to admit it. It’s called _Bambi’s_ , written in old-fashioned cursive and the inside is all dark woods and high windows. He’s seen it walking about town but has never gone in before: honestly from the name he had thought it was some weird Disney rip off. The tables are sturdy wood and lit overhead with a warm light, matching chairs and a large TADA! sign outlined in lightbulbs on the wall.

They end up at one of the tables, covered in small plates filled with samples of various savoury dishes: everything from delicate pigeon breasts to steaming lamb tagine to stuffed bell peppers to fragrant piles of steamed fish, ginger and spring onions piled high.

“I thought that Josh was in charge of catering?” Quentin says in a low voice as they take their seats, Margo having left, subpar plate of slightly burnt gumbo in hand, to ‘kick someone’s ass’ in the kitchen.

“Oh, he is,” Eliot says, “But he’s in charge of catering for the masses. The free stuff for the family gawkers. _Bambi’s_ is going to be catering for the VIPs.”

“That’s-” Quentin pauses, unsure whether he should continue but. Josh is his friend. “I don’t think that’s fair,” he says, “I mean. Josh is putting so much work into this? He’s killing himself to get your dishes perfected, and you’re just going to let Margo sweep in and take over the important stuff?”

Eliot pauses. Looks amused. “Oh,” he says, “I wouldn’t worry about Josh. Margo knows exactly how to…handle him.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

Margo is sashaying back over to them and having evidentially heard Eliot’s last remark gives a frankly lascivious grin, licking her lips provocatively.

“Bambi!” Eliot calls out, “Quentin here is worried that you’re taking advantage of Hoberman, sweeping in and stealing his work.”

“Aww,” Margo coos looking down at them, “You never said that he was this adorable. So earnest.”

Quentin scowls, aware that he’s being mocked but not backing down: “Don’t-”

“Put him out of his misery, Eliot,” Margo says, pressing an unexpected kiss to the top of Quentin’s head making him jump and making Eliot laugh.

“Margo is going to be providing the food for the Christmas party at _Fillory_ ,” Eliot says, “Though I’m sure that Josh will appreciate his knight in shining armour.”

“…what?”

“The _Fillory_ office party,” Margo repeats, “Are you deaf?”

“No! I just…” he turns helplessly to Eliot, “We’re getting an office party? And…I mean, you said that Margo was catering for the VIPs?”

“You sentimental bitch,” Margo crows, “You actually said that?”

Eliot ignores her indulgently, instead turning his attention to Quentin: “I couldn’t give a damn about the majority of people,” he says, “People are fundamentally shitty, full of petty drama and only concerned with their boring little lives. _Fillory_ \- my employees- have transcended that. They’re out there, making my vision a reality. Why wouldn’t they be the most important people? And…I’m not indifferent to how everyone has pulled together for the Christmas extravaganza: it’s unlikely that anyone will be able to enjoy the work they put in. So, Quentin,” he imbues Quentin’s name with- with something, something that curls around the vowels and makes him shiver, “The reason that Josh isn’t catering for this party is that it would be rather counterproductive.”

Quentin just blinks up at Eliot. “Oh,” he says, “That’s-”

“You can pussy up and admit your feelings for each other another time,” Margo’s voice cuts through the tension between them with the subtlety of a battle axe, “Time is money people: some of us have a business to run, so eat your fucking food and let me know what you want for your party so that we can get on with our lives. God!”

And, blushing, Quentin does just that.


	8. 6 Days until Deck the Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title image uses a stock photo: "Covered in White" by Coccineus   
> https://www . deviantart . com/coccineus/art/Covered-in-White-II-512521006

Penny catches him after rehearsal that evening. Like, literally catches him by the arm and drags him to the _Wandering Dune_ with Josh and Fen, Eliot waving them off with an amused smirk and claiming that he had more work to do at the office and couldn’t join them. Asshole.

“We need to fill out the form,” Penny declares in the car on the way over to the bar as Quentin useless tugs at the seatbelt holding him hostage, “Which means that we need to come up with a half-decent name and I don’t trust you to do that on your own. We’ll end up named something stupid like the Mistle-Tones.”

“Actually,” Quentin says, “That’s not a bad name-” he trails off at the unimpressed look that Penny’s shooting him and shuts up until they pull into the bar. Sitting at the table, a pina colada set in front of him (with extra maraschino cherries: all of them had silently fished their own out and dropped it into his glass), and surrounded by his erstwhile ‘friends’ he can’t help but wonder whether he’s made a mistake.

“So, er,” he says, “Has anyone thought about a name?”

Josh snorts at him, “Forget that,” he says, “What I want to know is what the hell is going on with you and Eliot?”

Quentin jerks back as if slapped. “What?” he says, “I don’t- I mean. I- We’re friends?”

Penny snorts. “Friends,” he says, “Sure.”

“Shut up,” Quentin hisses at him, aware of Josh and Fen’s curious looks and even more aware of the fact that for some reason they actually are Eliot’s friends and know him and who knows could actually go to him and tell him that Quentin Coldwater has a pathetic crush on him, and then they’d all just sit around laughing together at what an idiot he is-

“Breath. Quentin. _Quentin_. Listen to me man. In and out, ok? Just-deep breathes. Fen, have you got- thanks. Here Quentin, drink this.”

A cool glass is pressed into Quentin’s hands and he automatically brings it to his mouth, cool water running down his throat.

He blinks up at Penny, who’s crouched next to him, and looking pretty concerned. Like, really concerned. Has something happened?

“What’s-” Quentin’s voice breaks slightly, and he takes another drink of water before continuing, “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Penny laughs, a short, humourless thing, and he shakes his head.

“You are, you idiot,” he says, but he looks better and gets off the dodgy floor and back into his seat. After a brief, fraught moment, the other three start talking again, while Quentin leans back, nursing his glass of water.

“Talking about crushes,” Josh says lightly, grinning at Penny, “Who’s the hot brunette hanging around Brakebills? You and she seem to be,” Josh wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, “Getting along, if you know what I mean.”

Penny, shit. Penny starts blushing. Quentin stares in fascination. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Penny look that bashful.

“That’s just Kady,” Penny says, “She’s…she’s a friend.”

“Wait,” Fen says, “Kady Orloff-Diaz?”

“Yeah,” Penny says, “You know her?”

“She’s my self-defence instructor,” Fen says, “I trade blacksmithing lessons for self-defence every Thursday and Saturday.”

“Oh!” a lightbulb has gone off over Josh’s head, “She’s the reason you keep getting those weird bruises on your thighs!” A hushed silence falls over the table, maybe even the entire bar as people turn and stare at Josh’s over-loud remark.

After a minute or so enduring the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (or maybe it’s just him, Fen doesn’t look that bothered anyway?), people accept that there isn’t going to be any kind of follow-up to that statement, and conversations start up again, hopefully not about them but Quentin knows that he isn’t that lucky.

Fen just rolls her eyes: “They’re proud reminders of how much I’m improving,” she says primly, “Anyway, I don’t see Margo complaining about it.”

“That’s because it’s not you she’s complaining to,” Josh says, “The amount of times she’s texted me, bitching because she wanted to be the one to leave marks-”

“Ok!” Quentin quickly puts his hands in front of his face, warding off further words, “Too much information! We didn’t need to know that!” He pauses. “Wait,” he says, “Margo? Owner of _Bambi’s_? That Margo?”

“Oh, Eliot brought you to meet her,” Fen says, “He said that he might!”

“But…” Quentin says, “How do you guys know Margo?”

“Christ you’re dim, Coldwater,” Penny says, “They’re in a relationship with her. Either that or she has some sort of weird bruise fetish and Fen is a lot kinkier than I thought.”

Fen gives a small secretive smile, “Or maybe both?” she suggests.

Penny stares at her in horror. “No,” he says flatly, “No, you can’t just spring that on me without warning. I’m going to have to surgically remove the last five minutes from my brain now.”

The table bursts into laughter, but Quentin tunes them out, leaning back against his chair. Because- if Margo and Josh and Fen are together, then that means that Eliot and Margo aren’t a thing, despite the teasing the gentle kisses and the whole feeding each other choice morsels of food that he’d had to sit through the day before. Although, thinking about it, Eliot had also offered him a few bites off his fork, his eyes dark and expectant…

No. No. This is almost worse in a way, because it just. It just showcases the fact that Eliot is an extremely tactile person? And that he probably just- does that with all his friends. And. That’s good. Because it means that they’re friends. And being friends is better than nothing. Even if it does make his chest ache.

Shaking his head slightly, he snaps back to the present, catching Penny’s worried look and smiling at him to reassure him that he’s, you know, he’s ok.

“So,” he says to Penny, grinning at him, “Tell me about this Kady.”

#

Quentin stumbles back into his house, his mind pleasantly blurry from the two cocktails he’d drunk. Shoving his hands into his pocket for his keys, something crinkles. Huh. He ignores it for the moment, concentrated on matching the key with the keyhole so that he isn’t forced to spend all night outside or worse, call down and ask Jane to open the door for him. It takes him a few minutes, but he does finally manage to open the door, and he stumbles in, dropping his messenger bag and coat on the couch.

Martin Chatwin looks up from the couch on narrow eyed disapproval, grumpy as any maiden aunt whose ward had come stumbling in at an unacceptable hour, how dare they, and gives a large: “Mrowwwwwww,” clearly demanding to be fed. He hops out of his bed and winds himself around Quentin’s legs, under the threat of being squashed at every step, until he capitulates and prepares him some wet food.

Then, sacred duty fulfilled and cat purring contently in the corner, Quentin looks down at the paper that he’s holding, and in retrospect, it probably would have been easier if he’d, uh, put it down at any time in the last ten minutes, huh.

He turns the kitchen lights on, wincing against the harsh lights, and smooths the crumpled ball out on the kitchen table. It’s the form for the singing competition, the pre-Deck the Halls competition. Grabbing a pen from the table, and then another one because it turns out that the first doesn’t have any ink left in it, he fills out the form, making sure that he’s writing clearly and legibly, ignoring the way that the world is spinning around him.

There at the top of the page, in the section marked ‘NAME OF GROUP’ he hesitates. Despite the reason that Penny had given for dragging him out to the bar, they hadn’t actually got to the whole deciding on a name part of the evening, too busy on the whole freaking-out-after-Quentin-freaked-out-about-Eliot, followed by grilling Penny on his love life and the mysterious Kady. Anyway, it’s totally Penny’s fault that they still don’t have a group name, and there’s a deadline coming up and…actually, he’d come up with a pretty good option? In the car? And if the others don’t like it, then they shouldn’t have ambushed him.

Slowly, painstakingly, in block letters and, in a fit of holiday whimsy clearly fuelled by the ok-I-maybe-had-more-than-three-drinks-earlier adrenaline, decorated with little doodles of holly, mistletoe, and music notes around the edges, he writes: ‘The Mistle-Tones’.


	9. 5 Days until Deck the Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title image uses a stock graphic: "ornament-red-gold1" by Obsidian Dawn https://www.obsidiandawn.com/  
> https://www.obsidiandawn.com/christmas-ribbons-ornaments-transparent-pngs

Quentin, surprising everyone and especially himself, manages to get up on time the next morning. Scratch that, he manages to get up early, and spends fifteen minutes pacing around the kitchen in a fit of nervous panic, washing his pills down with mediocre coffee (look, he’s awake not _coherent_ ) before he finally gives up at 7:15 and walks down to Brakebills, hands smoothing the form compulsively in his pocket until he forces himself to stop, for fear of irredeemably crumpling it or something and rendering it illegible.

He gets there and…yeah, no surprise the mall isn’t open at 7:40 on a Wednesday. Hah. Who could have seen that coming.

He pulls the form out of his pocket and looks at it for one long moment. So…they’re really doing this. Huh.

And then before he can think better of it, he folds it into quarters, writes ALICE on the front of it and slips it under the door of the mall. He gives an awkward wave to the security camera: “So, um,” he says, “I really hope that you still get here like, super early Alice? Because if not I’ve totally just messed our chances up because this is probably going to get trampled as hell and er. Disappear into the aether, never to be seen again. So. Um. Fingers crossed?”

And then he turns and leaves. He has to get to work.

#

Work is…yeah, hellish isn’t an understatement. Definitely not. In fact, watching the third person stumble out of Eliot’s office trying to hide their tears (not counting Todd who hadn’t even tried to hide it when he’d started crying), hell might even be a slight understatement.

Quentin fervently wishes for a working phone, something that he could take out unobtrusively and send a text to Fen, something with multiple punctuation marks and an incoherent plea for advice. But he doesn’t, because he’s still trying not to use his maybe-broken phone with the incriminating video on it in case of like, it spontaneously breaking and deleting all his media? And yeah, he should have backed it up to his computer, but he hasn’t updated to the newest software for, er, for a while so his computer is pretty mad at him? And doesn’t really want to connect to external devices. After Christmas, he promises himself, he’ll do it after Christmas, ignoring the fact that he’d been putting it off since Halloween.

“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Eliot snaps.

“No, of course not,” Quentin says, “Keep talking about…you know, how the decorating team has the same colour sensibilities as a colour-blind cocker spaniel. I’m sure that’ll help.”

Eliot scowls, and Quentin realises that he’s made a mistake because he looks like he’s about to start the rant all over again, and that was ten minutes of his life that he isn’t ever getting back and he doesn’t want to go for round two, so instead he grabs Eliot’s arm and physically drags him out of the building, ignoring his reflexive protest of: “This shirt is Ralph Lauren!”

Quentin is working on the kind of adrenaline logic that governed that one French waitress student who, like, dragged that giant lizard out of a restaurant? The principles of moving quickly enough that they can’t protest, anyway. And being dumber than everyone else around them. Fen gives him a deeply grateful look as they pass, so at least someone else thinks that he’s doing a good thing.

Eliot’s stopped complaining about him creasing his shirt by the time they reach the ground floor in any case. And when he leads him carefully out of the building, walking through the parking lot and out, he doesn’t protest. Finally, they come to a stop in a small wooded area, deserted except for a couple of lonely beer bottles littering the ground. There’s an intensely earthy smell of pine and wet soil and if they ignore the occasional sound of cars coming from the main road (not a huge concern mid-afternoon on a Wednesday) then they could be anywhere.

This clearing is where Quentin has spent most of his lunch hours since starting at _Fillory_ , slipping out with one of his well-thumbed books and occasionally remembering to eat his food. Honestly, sometimes he loses track of time, sitting here and revisiting old friends, and Penny has to drag him back to his desk and the dull mundanity of the ‘real’ world. Although…the real world isn’t looking too bad now.

“What is this?” Eliot asks. He doesn’t resist as Quentin slowly tugs him down to sit on a tree stump though he does complain a little about the mess that he’s going to make of his pants, Quentin, honestly, have you tried to get dirt out of wool?

“It’s where I go when I’m stressed,” Quentin says simply, “Just-somewhere I don’t have to think about anything apart from the smell of the earth and the pines. Did you know, the ah, the scent of the ground after rain is called petrichor?”

“I did, actually,” Eliot looks up at Quentin, eyes lidded, “There was a tweet going around on it a few months ago.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember that,” Quentin lies: he isn’t on twitter because he gets depressed about the sheer amount of politics on there? And there’s no amount of cute cat photos that Julia retweets that makes up for that. He definitely doesn’t want to admit that he learnt about the word via _Doctor Who_ though, so he just nods sagely like a good, twitter-checking person, and continues: “Well, I love that smell. And I can just-feel it out here. Like it’s so much more present, and it reminds me that there are other things in life.”

“That,” Eliot says, “Is one of the nerdiest things I’ve ever heard you say, Coldwater, and considering I’ve known you for over a week by now that’s saying something.”

Quentin grins down at him and then, to his immediate regret and despite Eliot’s protests, drops to the ground and sprawls on the damp, leaf-covered floor, leaving his pants pretty soaked.

“Oh,” he says, “You haven’t seen nerdy yet.”

Eliot snorts, the most inelegant sound that Quentin has ever heard from him, and with a quick shrug of his shoulder, slides off his perch to sit beside Quentin on the floor. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a pack of cigarettes, covered in what Quentin recognises as Fen’s handwriting: ‘DON’T!!!’ ‘SMOKING KILLS!’ ‘LAST! RESORT! ONLY!’.

Ignoring the capital letters and worrying amount of exclamation marks, Eliot opens the packet and takes out a cigarette, lighting it with a heavy silver lighter in one smooth action and taking a deep drag before offering it to Quentin.

He hesitates: he’s had the odd cigarette, being more of a social smoker than anything? Like, when Penny took up smoking he would have one to keep him company. But- he hasn’t really had one for years. Since they left school. Refusing to second guess himself, he reaches over and takes the proffered cigarette.

It’s not a brand that he recognises, which probably means that it’s hideously expensive especially considering that the ones he’s used to are the cheapest roll-ups possible, but the smoke sinks into his lungs filling him with temporary relief. Ok, so maybe a bit more of a social smoker than he thought.

He looks up and catches Eliot staring at him with a strange look in his eyes, and with one last inhale he hands the cigarette back. Their hands brush and- god, he doesn’t know. It feels charged, tense, a bolt of electricity passing from one hand to another, filling the air with something strange and… not entirely unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all in fact, for all that Quentin feels breathless and heady and hot. Maybe that’s just the tobacco, though. 

The cigarette burns out, unattended.

“We should,” Eliot says, and his voice is rough from the smoke, or from something else, “We should get back to work. I shudder to think what monstrosities Todd has wrought in my absence.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, “We um. We should.”

Neither of them move. Quentin: he can feel himself leaning in, helpless to resist the draw…. And then with a shudder, Eliot turns away and stands up, the moment lost. He doesn’t look at Quentin. And then he walks away.

“Oh,” Quentin says. And he sits for a moment, water soaking into his pants. And then he gets up and follows.


	10. 4 Days until Deck the Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title image uses a stock photo: "Christmas Bokeh 2" by RachgracehStock  
> https://www.deviantart.com/rachgracehstock/art/Christmas-Bokeh-2-415573257

When Quentin wakes the next morning it’s to the promise of storms, cloud thick and dark in the sky and the occasional threatening drop of rain falling on his head. Figures. He leaves half an hour earlier than usual, dry swallowing his pills and rushing out of his apartment. Lightning streaks across the sky and Quentin narrowly avoids being drenched as he hurries into the building.

It’s strange: _Fillory_ is dark and empty, the few employees who’ve managed to make it in before the weather have hidden themselves in their offices to dry off or have congregated around the single functioning coffee machine. Penny isn’t in yet, and actually now that he thinks about it driving in this weather must be torture. Or, like, actually some kind of actual risk to life and limb.

“Quentin!”

Josh sweeps past him and catches him by the arm. He’s looking uncharacteristically ruffled, panting slightly and still in his coat.

“Josh?” Quentin asks, “Are you-”

“No time.” Josh cuts him off brusquely, and wow Quentin has never heard him do that. Not really. For someone who resembles a college frat boy most of the time, including the faintest omnipresent hint of odour of weed, he’s surprisingly good at letting people finish their sentences before interjecting himself.

“You need to find Eliot,” he continues, “Because dude? He is freaking out about the outside decorations at Brakebills being ruined and I swear he wants to drive over there and, I don’t know, take them all down single-handedly or something.”

“What?” Quentin asks, “But the storm…Shit. Where-”

“Parking lot, near the door last I saw him. Don’t let him leave the building: I’m going to find Fen.”

And then he sprints off again, weaving between the puddles of water dotting the floor.

Quentin quickly follows his lead, shrugging his coat back on as he runs and narrowly avoiding taking a door to his face as he careens around corners. Eliot, when he finds him, is indeed in the parking lot, heedless of the thundering rain, curls plastered to his face and flat as he’s ever seen them. He’s battling his way toward his car, face drawn and determined.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Quentin yells, steeling himself and darting out into the rain to grab at Eliot’s coat and physically pull him back toward the safety of the building.

Eliot fights him, desperately trying to get back to his car, but Quentin clings on. There’s no way that he’s going to let him drive in this weather. Even discounting the dramatic peals of thunder and the danger of being hit by lightning, the rain is now coming down so thick that it’s hard to see more than a few feet.

At some point, Quentin takes an elbow to the face rolling back at the last moment to (hopefully) avoid a black eye, but he doesn’t let go. He holds fast for what feels like hours but must have only been a couple of minutes before he feels additional hands grabbing onto Eliot and pulling him back to safety. He lets himself be pulled along until finally all of them, Eliot, Fen, Josh and him, are left panting and soaking wet in the foyer.

“I have a change of clothes downstairs,” Josh lowly to Quentin, “Enough for Fen as well. I’m going to get changed and then whip us up some hot chocolate. I’ll leave you to deal with.” He makes a helpless gesture toward Eliot.

“Eliot’s got a change of clothes in his office,” Fen adds quietly, “We’ll meet you there.” She gently touches his shoulder and then draws him into a hug. “Thank you,” she whispers into his ear and then the pair of them set off leaving Eliot and Quentin standing alone, the only sound the torrent outside and the quieter drip drip of their drenched clothes. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and then turns to Eliot, who hasn’t spoken yet but who also hasn’t tried to make a break for the door.

“What the hell were you thinking?!” Quentin is shouting, he realises distantly through the anger, although his voice is hardly audible over the pounding of the rain, “You idiot Eliot! You could have killed yourself. No, fuck that. You would have killed yourself; the only question is who you would have taken with you.”

Eliot blanches, lips pressing tightly together.

“I wouldn’t-” he says, and Quentin can see the fine tremble of his hands, the water dripping off his hair and down his face, the wide, shocked expression in his eyes, and he can’t help but deflate, the anger abandoning him in place of a quiet fear.

“You would,” he says, more gently, “Shit El, don’t do that to me. I can’t, I mean-” he swallows back recriminations, confessions, emotions: “What would the Mistle-Tones do without you?”

Eliot blinks at him for a moment before letting out an explosive laugh. He drags his left hand through the mess that is his hair, futilely brushing it out of his face only for it to flop limply back down.

“The Mistle-Tones?” he says, “You really went with that? No wonder you didn’t want to tell us what you put on the application form.”

“Hey,” Quentin says placing a light hand on Eliot’s back and guiding him back through the deserted building to his office, “Actually, I think that’s the height of pun sophistication. There, er, there has to be an element of cheese in the name, otherwise no one will take us seriously.”

“You think that people are going to take us seriously as it is?” Eliot asks.

“We’re very professional,” Quentin says, “Especially since I think one of the groups is called the Christmas Crackers? Which is just…no, on so many levels.”

Insulting Quentin’s sense of style is enough to get them to Eliot’s office (their office now? He definitely spends more time here than at his desk) and thankfully as soon as they cross the threshold Eliot springs back into life, quickly shedding his clothing and leaving it in small puddles on the floor. Quentin averts his eyes. This is the second time that he’s seen Eliot in a state of undress in the past, like, week or something and this is a really good illustration of wanting versus having? Because god, if you’d asked him before this week whether he wanted Eliot to be half naked in front of him…well, he probably wouldn’t have replied, or would have just descended into a stuttering mess, kind of like he’s doing now, so maybe the problem was more along the lines of he just hadn’t considered what it would really be like? Hadn’t thought what the sight of smooth, well-tended skin with the occasional glimpse of freckles would do to him.

“Can I,” he says carefully, “I mean I don’t suppose you’ve got more dry clothes? Just- I don’t usually have a change of clothes at the office, and I’d, um, I’d wash them before giving them back of course.”

A snort, and then a soft bundle hits him square in the face. It’s a shirt and pants that probably cost more than he makes in a year, and wow this is not ok, they smell like Eliot: not his fancy cologne or his shampoo or whatever he wears, but something that he’s only caught whiffs of occasionally, when they’ve been pressed too close together, looking over a seating arrangement or debating over canapés. Something bright and surprisingly sweet with a distinct earthy undertone that reminds him of nothing more than summer days spent out with Julia, lying on the shaded grass.

“Please don’t wash them,” Eliot says, “Those are dry clean only.” Quentin coughs and pulls away, hoping that his hair hides his blush. There are probably weirder things to do than smelling someone’s clothes, but he can’t think of them.

“Of course they are,” he says, overloud, pulling his decidedly not dry clean only hoodie, shirt and jeans off and leaving them in a sad heap. Eliot makes a strangled sound: “If you didn’t want me getting your carpet wet, then you should have thought before, I don’t know, running out in a thunderstorm,” he says, pulling on the clean clothes as quickly as possible. His body is…fine, but nothing like an Eliot.

“That’s not- Never mind.”

“Are you going to tell me why you were freaking out so much?” Quentin asks once he’s (relatively) dry and warm once again, “Also, like, I can’t believe that you’ve actually got this many clothes in your office. I mean, we’ve joked about it? But I didn’t think that it was actually true.”

Eliot sighs. He slides open a drawer and removes a flask, and then sits onto his horrendously uncomfortable couch and pats the seat next to him. Quentin hesitates: whenever he moves he can smell Eliot, can feel the unfamiliar fabrics against his skin. Having to sit on the same (pretty small) couch might actually kill him. But he goes, nonetheless, and sits and tries not to breath too deeply.

“So,” Eliot says, “Tragic backstory 101.” He passes the flask over to Quentin, who pauses and then tips it into his mouth. Eliot snatches it back in horror, only 50% of which might be real. Maybe 70%.

“That’s the good stuff Quentin, you’re meant to sip it.”

“Oh,” he says, because honestly it just tastes like alcohol to him? Maybe smoother than usual but still just alcohol? Only, wait: “You’re deflecting again,” he says, stealing the flask back and taking another, slower sip. It’s only about ten in the morning, but with the way the weather is looking there’s no way that people are coming into work, so day drinking is definitely be the way to go.

“I killed someone,” Eliot says quickly and deceptively nonchalantly.

Quentin deliberately squashes the first thing he wants to say. And then the second.

“Ok?”

“I was fourteen,” Eliot continues, studying his hands carefully, “His name was Logan Kinnear. He was a bully. I wasn’t-” he gestures to himself, “This yet, but I was a gay theatre kid in rural Indiana. You do the maths. He was chasing me across a busy road, I didn’t see the bus…” He shrugs.

“But,” Quentin says, hovering indecisively, unsure whether to hug Eliot or lay a hand on his shoulder and ending up doing neither, “That wasn’t your fault. It was…god, it was just an accident. A tragic accident.”

“Is it though?” Eliot still isn’t looking at him, so he screws his courage to the sticking place and reaches over to lay a hand on his back. It’s horribly awkward until it’s not: Eliot’s slowly becoming less and less tense under his hands. He still isn’t looking at Quentin though.

“Yes,” Quentin says firmly, “You shouldn’t…you shouldn’t beat yourself up over something that happened over a decade ago.”

God, his therapist would be proud of him.

Slowly, and seemingly without meaning to, Eliot collapses backward, leaning against Quentin.

“I moved here to escape it all,” Eliot says, “I- Fuck. I was the queer who’d killed Logan Kinnear. It even fucking rhymed. I built this company because I needed something, something that…”

Blindly, he reaches out and takes the flask back from Quentin, taking a long swallow: “I needed something that was mine. Something that defined me, something I could make my own.”

He does look at Quentin then, and there’s something harsh and broken on his face, a rictus of a smile that’s as convincing as a cracked porcelain mask: “Isn’t that a cliché,” he continues, “Poor little gay trying to atone for his fucked up past.”

“Ok, no, stop,” Quentin says, “This- I’m sorry El, but I can’t let anyone talk about yo- my friends like that. _Fillory_ is- I can’t believe that you’ve built it up already. I mean shit, you’re my age, right? A bit older? I just- most of us are struggling, trying to get along each day and here you are and you know, you just know, what you’re doing. Like, you’ve got a goal and you’re going got it. Have you got any idea how rare that is?”

Eliot snorts. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Our first big contract, and it’s ruined.”

“It’s _not_.”

Quentin’s hands convulsively jerk, narrowly avoiding pulling Eliot’s hair. “Ok, sure, it’s a setback-”

“Quentin,” Eliot sits up and turns to look at him, “We’ve wasted days. Everything outside…it’s ruined. All of our decorations are gone-”

“But we have more,” Quentin says, “We have back up options. We have, like, a whole list of decorations that you rejected-”

“Yes, Quentin, key word being _rejected_ -“

“That we could make work,” Quentin continues doggedly, “And- yeah, we’re going to have to put them up again and clear away the debris but at least it’s only the outside? It’s not like we’re going to have to start from scratch again.”

He leans over and gives Eliot a careful hug.

“We’ve got this,” he says, “All of us. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Eliot’s arms are warm and his still-damp hair is ticking Quentin’s forehead and he doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t pull away. 

“We should find Josh,” Quentin says finally, “Make sure that he and Fen haven’t slipped on a puddle and drowned.”

“He and Fen are probably making out in a cupboard somewhere,” Eliot says absent-mindedly, “But you’re right. I need to email people, tell them not to bother coming in. Figure out who’s here and what to do with them.”

“Yeah, that’s er, probably for the best,” Quentin says, “I don’t think the storm’s going anywhere anytime soon.”

As if in punctuation, there’s another rumble of thunder and the lights flicker.

“Once everyone’s been taken care of,” Eliot says, “We can. Well. We could wait for a break in the rain, go pick up Penny and have an extra-long rehearsal today.”

He picks up one of Quentin’s hands and smooths it softly, “See whether I can finally get you to run through those tuts successfully.”

“it’s not my fault you’re a sadistic perfectionist with freakishly flexible hands,” he says, “But- I mean. You really want to spend the entire day working on this?”

“Shhh,” Eliot places a single finger on Quentin’s lips. His fingers are ridiculously soft. “We might as well make the most of this opportunity. At least one of us should achieve our dreams.”

Heart pounding, Quentin just stares up into his face, heart pounding. Because god. What are his dreams anymore?

(Later, sitting on his sofa, he just picks up Martin Chatwin and stares at his small, furry face and asks him despairing: “What the fuck is going on?”)


	11. 3 Days until Deck the Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title image uses a stock image: "2012 FREE Snowy Winter Mountain Scene v1" by bassgeisha  
> https://www.deviantart.com/bassgeisha/art/2012-FREE-Snowy-Winter-Mountain-Scene-v1-338614182

“You know,” Penny says, standing in the middle of the courtyard with his arms crossed, “We didn’t do half bad.”

Quentin tries to brush his hair behind his ear, only for his hand to meet empty air: he’s forgotten that he’d pulled his hair back into a loose bun to stop sweat, mud and…other things from getting in it. There’s a group of them, everyone who can be spared and some who can’t, who’ve been gathering all the garbage together, salvaging whatever they can, and carefully putting up the new decorations (that he and Eliot had spent a very stressful few hours choosing the previous day).

“Yeah,” he says turning the aborted movement into an awkward wave at Fen on the other side of the courtyard, who looks blank for a moment before beaming at him and waving back.

“You utter nerd,” Penny says, rolling his eyes, “Come on. We should set off. Get ready for this ‘office’ party.”

“What? We’re…I mean that’s not for another two hours.”

“Quentin,” Penny says with remarkable patience (although he has been in a weirdly good mood recently, something that he doesn’t want to pry into too deeply- he had shared a room with him for four years in college and he knew a disquieting amount about his sex life), “You’ve only got two hours. You need to get back to your house, get changed, wash whatever that-” he makes a gesture toward Quentin’s whole being, which ok ouch but also fair because the whole bottom of his jeans is coated in an inch of viscous liquid he hopes is mud, “-is and put something on that doesn’t look like you fished it out of a garbage can outside of Target.”

“…have you been talking to Margo?” Quentin says.

“What?”

“Never mind, it just sounded like something- No. It doesn’t matter. I- Look, Penny, I don’t think that I should come this evening.”

“The fuck?”

“No, hear me out. I mean- it’s only a couple of days until the performance, and I mean- I’m not great in social situations, and I know that you’re bringing Kady along this evening, I don’t want to get in the way-”

“Right,” Penny grabs Quentin by the arm and drags him toward his car which, Quentin realises, already has a tarp set down in the back seat, so he isn’t getting out of this.

“Fen!” Penny yells, “I’m taking Quentin back to his to get ready. I’ll see you at the party.”

Quentin shoots a pleading glance toward Fen, hoping that she’ll save him. Instead she shoots them both double thumbs up. He resigns himself to his fate.

#

“Right,” Quentin says, twenty minutes later, thoroughly threatened and with a pick-up time of 6:40, to Martin Chatwin, “What the fuck should I wear?”

Martin Chatwin stares up at him with large, unimpressed eyes, and meows contemptuously.

“You already shredded my best clothes,” Quentin says, “So, er, I feel this is at least 80% your fault?”

The cat starts purring, and Quentin drops him in disgust. And then stands up and moves to the kitchen to feed him.

“You’ve got it really good, you know that?” he says, “I mean, the only thing you have to worry about is getting fed on time, and whether you can open the bedroom door while I’m at work. Just- you don’t have to worry about um, weirdly charged moments with our boss, or wondering whether you’re letting like, yourself down because your lifelong dream is becoming less important-”

An impatient growl and an aggressive headbutt interrupts his monologue, which honestly is for the best because apparently at some point he’d squeezed the food pouch so tightly that it’s burst all over his hands.

“Fuck!”

Well. At least he hasn’t had his shower yet. Scraping the meat and sauce off his hands and into Martin Chatwin’s dish with a disgusted grimace he drops it to the floor and, (after vigorously washing his hands) slopes off to look through his closet. Again. Yeah, still not anything there. He…maybe should have done his laundry.

Desperately he digs through his closet a third time, flinging shirts and pants out onto his bed, rejected each one for being too baggy, too dirty, shit are there holes in that does he have moths?, Hawaiian print, made out of spandex... There! Balled up in the corner something soft brushes against his hand.

Pulling it out…it’s the shirt. The shirt that Julia got him as a graduation present fuck knows how many years ago (approximately six years ago for prom where they had gone together ‘as friends’ with James- huh he should look up James and figure out what happened to him at some point). It’s made out of a dark, shimmering material, maybe satin or silk. He’s not sure what the difference is: one of them is natural and one of them isn’t but…is that the only difference? Anyway, he hasn’t worn it since that evening: Julia hadn’t got his size right or something, and it was way too small on him. It is, however, his only vaguely suitable item of clothing. And, glancing at his computer, he’s running out of time.

Grabbing a pair of dark and vaguely smart jeans that don’t smell too bad, he dumps them on his bed (making sure to actually shut his bedroom door this time to stop Martin Chatwin from ruining yet another outfit) and rushes into the shower to get at least some of the sweat and mud off.

He just makes it: he’s scraping his hair into a bun and pulling on his jeans when Penny starts aggressively ringing his doorbell.

“I’m ready!” he calls, and wrenches open his door before Penny, who’s transitioned to what sounds like kicking it, knocks it down.

“I said I’m ready, what the fuck dude-” He stops. Because it’s not Penny standing there. Or at least not just Penny. His friend is smirking at him, leaning against the wall opposite his door.

“…Kady?” Quentin asks hesitantly. He’s pretty sure it’s her, he vaguely remembers her from the audition a week ago, but also because there’s nobody else she can be. Not dressed in dark, slashed jeans, combat boots, and wearing bright red lipstick the colour of blood.

She nods at him. “Clearwater,” she says.

“Oh, actually it’s-”

“Yeah, I don’t care. Come on, let’s go.”

She strides off down the corridor. “What the hell?” Quentin says.

“Yeah I know. Isn’t she great?” Penny has a self-satisfied look on his face, the proverbial cat in the cream and Quentin, despite himself, can feel his gaze being drawn slowly and inexorably to the base of Penny’s neck where he can just spot something swollen and bright red…

“Oh god,” Quentin says and flees followed by Penny’s mocking laughter. He fervently hopes that there’s still a tarp down on the back of the car- but he doesn’t want to risk asking.

#

The party is, as expected, overwhelming in all the best ways. The entire atrium has been filled with long trestle tables, groaning underneath the weight of innumerable dishes, filling the air with rich, tantalising scents. He can recognise the occasional dish from their tasting session a few days ago: the spiced tagines and heady curries and delicate steamed fish as well as the more mundane roast chickens and green bean casseroles. Quentin’s stomach growls, and he realises with a start that he hasn’t eaten for hours, not since the morning and that was only a single slice of toast quickly crammed into his mouth as he ran out of the door.

There’s also a dessert table- of course there is- filled with delicate pastries arranged in towering croque-en-boûches, elegant crystal glasses containing boozy crême brulées, and tiny bite-sized brownies that look suspiciously like what Josh had been working on the night before.

Centre stage and surrounded by iridescent bottles, numerous cocktail glasses and, for some reason, a couple of phallic ice sculptures, Eliot is effortlessly pouring drinks. There’s already a tower of worryingly green drinks in front of him. Todd is hovering near him, a Santa hat perched jauntily on his head and wearing a bright red waistcoat that Quentin can, completely objectively, say is nowhere as near as flattering as Eliot’s. He’s carefully chopping something green and minty, tongue stuck out in exaggerated concentration.

Eliot looks up and spots them and flashes a brief smile in their direction before hissing something at Todd who pouts, but slopes off.

Quentin peels off from Penny and Kady and heads over to Eliot, drawn toward him like a magnet, like a compass always pointing to the North Pole, like an addict to heroin, like a hundred other shitty metaphors that can never fully encompass how he feels.

“Hey,” he says.

“Q.” Eliot tosses off a quick salute and, giving him a considering look, starts reaching for bottles, effortlessly (and rather showily) mixing them together. In less than a minute there’s one of the green cocktails placed in front of him. With an exaggerated flourish, Eliot delicately places a small sprig of rosemary on the top as a garnish.

Quentin bursts into applause, only half sarcastically. With mock-suspicion, he picks up the delicate glass (is that crystal?) and takes a sip. The taste- smooth and sweet with a hint of spice and an incredible amount of alcohol- hits him, and he inadvertently groans.

“I didn’t know you knew how to do-” he gestures, “This.”

“There’s a lot of things that you don’t know about me,” Eliot drawls, picking up his own glass and tasting it. He hums in approval and Quentin tries not to stare as his tongue flicks out to catch a stray droplet. 

“I worked in a bar for a few years, after moving here,” Eliot continues, “Henry employed me at _The Cottage_. There’s probably some sort of law against minors working in cocktail bars, but nobody cares in the ass-end of America. I learnt all my best tricks from him, the most important of which-” He leans forward, intruding into Quentin’s personal space and breathes into his ear: “-is showmanship.”

He leans back and flashes Quentin the smuggest and most self-satisfied smile that he’s seen in while. There’s a beat of silence, two, and then-

He bursts out into laughter.

“Well it looks like someone’s having a good time.”

“Bambi!”

Eliot leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

“You look ravishing as always,” he says gravely. He steps back and runs his eyes up and down her appreciatively, taking in her red silk dress, her elegant bun with strands of hair framing her face, her dark, sultry eyes.

“And you look stunning,” she shoots back running an appreciative hand down his arm. They look…perfect together. Eliot’s cravat is made of the same material as Margo’s dress and as they lean toward each other, dark hair on dark, Quentin can’t help feel like nothing but a voyeur, a third wheel, watching two perfectly matched soulmates. Then Margo turns to him, lips stretched in a, frankly worrying, smile.

“And Quentin!” She bounds toward him and for one panicky minute he things that she’s going to hug him as well, but she stops short and give shim his own once-over.

“Not bad Coldwater,” she says, “Looks like you do have a decent fashion sense hidden under your- whatever those disaster hoodies are.” She squints at him. “Although…Eliot, come here.”

Obediently, Eliot comes out from behind the bar and stands, staring at Quentin.

“I see what you mean,” he says and reaches forward to straighten Quentin’s collar, fingers lingering slightly.

“There,” he says lightly, “Perfect. In fact…maybe I should institute a proper dress code. Because I could get used to this.”

He smiles down at him and Quentin must have like, heart palpitations or something because he swears that he can feel his heart skip a beat.

“I think that you boys need to go and have a talk somewhere, because this is ridiculous.”

Quentin stumbles forward into Eliot as Margo pushes them both towards the door.

“What-no!” he protests, attempting to dig his heels in but ultimately failing, “I mean, I don’t- we don’t- we aren’t-”

“This is going a little far, don’t you think Bambi? As Quentin said, we don’t and we aren’t, so this is hardly necessary-”

“Yeah, no. Save it. We’ve given you literal days to get your shit together and it isn’t working, so pussy up and sort yourselves out. And if either of you cock out of this, I am going to shove your heads so far up your asses that you’ll be gargling piss, and not in a fun way either.”

And with one final shove, both of them are ejected out into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind them. They’re left together, silence only broken by the faint sounds of chatting and Josh’s top 40 80s hits playlist. Quentin is staring at Eliot and Eliot is staring back at him and he swears that he’s blushing. And there’s something in his eyes, a hunger, that Quentin’s not sure if he’s imagining, projecting his own longing outward.

“Well,” Eliot says, voice mostly steady, “I suppose we’ll have to stay here until Bambi gets over herself. Pity we weren’t able to grab any drinks before-”

And do you know what? Quentin is- he’s so sick of this. The fierce ache that’s become part of his everyday life, the urge to touch Eliot at every opportunity, the embarrassingly Pavlovian reaction he’s developed to his voice, never mind his singing voice!, the way that he can lose hours staring at his hands… For once in his life, Quentin doesn’t overthink things. Instead, he throws himself forwards and, grabbing onto his no doubt hideously expensive cravat pulls him down and kisses him.

It’s- it’s pretty awful actually. Neither of them is prepared for it and Quentin can feel Eliot’s mouth, slack in surprise and disbelief, teeth clashing together painfully. He swallows and draws back slightly dreading the consequences of his- whatever this was.

But Eliot is staring back at him with a dazed look in his eyes and that same agonizing flash of emotion that’s been there for days, that unknown gleam. And then he’s sweeping forward, resting his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck and they’re kissing again.

Quentin melts and he’s clutching at Eliot, willing himself not to fall and then- oh. His mind goes blank and then all he can think about is the _now_. The present. He feels so viscerally alive, not a spectator in his life any longer but…engaging. Taking part. Loving.

The kiss ends too soon, and they spend a moment breathing together, foreheads resting against one another.

“Please,” Quentin says, hardly aware of the words as he speaks them, “Sing with me. At the competition on Sunday. I- I want you. I need you.”

A slight hesitation. And then Eliot breathing into his ear: “Anything for you.”


	12. 2 Days until Deck the Mall

Quentin wakes up ridiculously early considering that it’s a weekend and that his head is still pounding from the night before. He doesn’t care though. He could take a hundred hangovers, more, a thousand.

“I kissed him,” he tells Martin Chatwin, “And he kissed me. We’re singing together. I- we kissed. I can’t believe it.”

They had re-entered the party arm in arm, Eliot’s hand casually around Quentin’s waist like it belonged there. Nobody commented (although Margo was smug for the rest of the night and Fen looked like she Not Commenting extremely hard), not even when Quentin gave into temptation and kissed him again by the drinks table. And then behind the potted plants. And then in the men’s restroom where they possibly traumatised Todd.

Quentin can still feel the giddy euphoria permeating his entire body. It doesn’t seem real, more fantasy than fact, but it is. It’s something that happened and, raising his hand to the side of his neck where Eliot got a, er, a little too enthusiastic, he has the proof.

Rolling over (and incidentally dislodging Martin Chatwin who jumps off the bed with an unimpressed yowl) he stretches and then slowly swings his feet over the side of the bed, shivering in the early morning (ok, technically 10am but early for the weekend) cold.

Padding into the kitchen, he fixes himself a mug of coffee and takes a sip only to spit it out after discovering, holy shit he forgot to use hot water in it. But even that can’t bring him down. He’s starting to make his second cup when he hears the knocking on the door.

Huh. He doesn’t think that he’s ordered any parcels or anything? And he doesn’t know who else it could be: Penny isn’t a morning person, at all, and Julia had said that she was stuck in all day rehearsals. Alongside other expletives about Marina, her parentage, and her leadership style which included gems like not letting anyone so much as talk to the opposition (which meant that Kady was scarier and braver than he had thought), rehearsals literally every free hour they had, and not being able to eat anything with dairy in it. Knowing how much Julia loves hot chocolate, especially around Christmas time, he’s pretty sure that she’s had the most trouble with the last one.

Nestled in his cupboard is an extra-large tin of cocoa powder, a five pound bag of sugar, and the biggest packet of marshmallows he could find waiting for the day after the competition: he knows from experience that between Julia’s mad cravings and Penny’s secret love of sugar all of it will be consumed. He should…maybe get some more if Kady’s going to be coming along, as he suspects she might.

The knocking comes again, louder this time, and Quentin inches open the door cautiously wishing that he had a peephole or something. It would be stupid to get murdered or burgled or something the day before the big performance. Although even Marina wouldn’t stoop to that. Would she?

On the other side isn’t not Marina or some random robber as Quentin had half imagined that it might be, but Eliot.

“I didn’t know that you knew where I lived,” Quentin says dumbly inwardly cursing himself. What sort of statement is that? He should be saying something suave and cool and sweeping Eliot off his feet or something. But he can’t help himself. Because- Eliot came. Eliot came to see him. Eliot is here, and he came to see him, and they kissed last night and Quentin has no idea what he’s feeling but it’s taking root in his chest, something warm and loving and pure. And he never wants the feeling to stop.

“Fen told me,” Eliot says, sweeping in and setting his grocery bags down on the kitchen table. There are two of them, bulging, and a third bag that he conjures out of thin air or something packed to the brim with, Quentin squints at him as he starts unpacking, pans and condiments.

“What…what is this?” Quentin says.

“I’m making you breakfast,” Eliot says with an air of ‘evidentially’ in his voice. His hands don’t still from their sorting, and Quentin watches in amazement as he cracks an egg one handed into a bowl and starts whisking it.

“Oh,” he just says in lieu of anything better.

“Yes. Oh. Now come here Q.”

“What?”

Eliot grins up at him, his smile wide and mischievous, “You don’t think that I’ll be waiting on you, do you? Get over here and start beating these eggs so I can get started on the bell peppers.”

Quentin laughs and moves over, picking up the proffered knife and slowly and cautiously begins to hack at the bell pepper.

“Oh no,” Eliot tuts, “What are you doing to that poor thing?” Abandoning his whisk, he moves behind Quentin and, hands over hands, guides the knife to slowly dice the bell pepper into even squares. Quentin holds his breath and just lets Eliot manipulate him revelling in the feeling of his warm hands holding him.

“Now,” Eliot says he’s standing so close that when he speaks his breath rustles the fine hairs on the back of Quentin’s neck, “Do you think you can do that on your own?”

Quentin shudders and leans back, pressing into Eliot’s chest. He fits perfectly, the right height for Eliot to rest his head gently against Quentin’s.

“Maybe I can’t,” he says, “Maybe I’m just hopeless.” He turns around and smiles up at him. “Maybe, I need some more instruction.” And he reaches up gently and presses a kiss to his lips.

“I’ve never been a fan of breakfast,’ Eliot says staring down at him.

“Hey, er,” Quentin says reaching over and drawing him closer, “I’ve got some. Er. Ideas about tomorrow’s performance I’d like to show you. In my room.”

“Oh? Then by all means. Lead on.”

And then he does.

Breakfast is overrated anyway.


	13. The Day Before

There are a lot of people. A lot. There are too almost too many of them, spilling out from the inner courtyard where the stage is set up, milling in the corners underneath the festive lights and seated in the aisles between the elegant but surprisingly comfortable chairs that Quentin had spent hours picking out with Eliot. Children are running everywhere while their parents sit back, gossip, and sip mulled wine or cider as they relax for the first time in probably hours.

In the green room it isn’t much calmer: the Mistle-Tones barely manage to claim a space for themselves and that’s only thanks to the fact that they’ve been there all day setting up the stage and adding last minute decorations to the courtyard before the big event. Honestly, Penny is the only reason that they haven’t been overrun. Quentin has had to dodge three Santa hats, one very enthusiastic girl covered only in red and green body glitter, and a dance troupe who are all dressed in Styrofoam Christmas trees. They’re all feeling a bit frazzled: there’s no room to think never mind actually practise their routine. And secretly, at least in Quentin’s case, he’d been thinking that nobody else would actually turn up, that it’s just be a final showdown between them and the Snow Belles no matter how many adverts Alice ran. More fool him: he should have known better. What Alice puts her mind to, Alice gets. She’s scarily competent that way.

“This was a bad idea,” Josh says pacing nervously, “Why did I let you talk me into this Fen!”

“Hey. Dude. Calm the fuck down,” Penny hisses at him, “And get the fuck over your stage fright. I will not have you fuck this up for us.”

“I’m sorry!” Josh starts to run his hands through his hair compulsively, over and over again.

“Hey. Josh.” Quentin takes him firmly by the shoulders, looks him in the eyes and says: “It’ll be fine. We’ve all worked our asses off rehearsing this, and I’m pretty sure that it’s as good as it’s going to get, which is, like, awesome. Look Josh. I’ve been performing since I was old enough to walk. And yeah, the first few times sucked: I was sick the first couple of competitions that I did. I’m pretty sure that there’s an agent in Philadelphia who still hasn’t forgiven me for that. But the er. The point is that you’re not doing it for them. The people out there. You’re doing it for you. Because you enjoy doing it. Because you’re having fun.”

“Not because you’re trying to impress anyone,” Fen says, quiet and not staring at Quentin.

“Exactly,” he says. And it’s…it’s true. The whole thing had started as a way to get back at the Snow Belles, get back at Marina, show his mom that he’s not useless but… it’s more than that. The past couple of weeks have filled a hole in him that he hadn’t expected, allowed him to just relax and have fun with his friends. He’s just…he’s never realised that singing could be fun? It’s always been an obligation to him, something that means stress and anxiety and, more often than not, failure.

“Nice speech,” comes a drawled voice from behind, and Quentin doesn’t bother to hide the wide grin spreading across his face.

“Eliot!”

He drops a soft kiss on his head and Quentin spins around (narrowly avoiding headbutting him) and kisses him, soft and almost chaste if it wasn’t for the sheer love and longing that shot through him at the touch. Eliot isn’t unaffected either, judging by the way his eyes darken.

“Not the time guys!” Margo shoulders past them and makes a beeline toward Josh where she punches him in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Pussy up!” she says, “And get out there. This group is 50% Hansons and you had better fucking get over your stage fright. This household does not tolerate quitters.”

“Wow, diplomatic as ever,” Penny mutters, but amazingly Josh is calming down, the panic fading from his face. “Well, I wouldn’t want to shame the house,” he says, leaning against Margo. Fen comes up behind them, and hugs them, holding them tightly.

“What was that about it not being the time?” Eliot asks, amused.

Margo flips Eliot off and draws first Fen and then Josh into a deep kiss. There are moans. Quentin flushes a bright red making Eliot laugh behind him. He reaches out and traces a finger across Quentin’s flaming cheeks and hums in approval, drawing him in for another kiss…

“I’ve descended into Hell,” Penny says flatly, “I have no idea what I did to deserve this.”

“I had to sit in a car with you and Kady,” Quentin shoots back, “You know exactly what you did.”

“You owe me. So much,” Penny replies, unphased. “And you!” he points straight at Josh who’s straightening his shirt and looking dazed, a bright red hickey already developing on his collarbone, “You had better provide all the cookies man. There are some things that you’re not meant to witness, and this is one of them, ok?”

“Aww, are you jealous?” Margo purrs, “We could make room for you as well sweetheart.” She smirks and nods at something over his shoulder, “We could even make room for your crazy girlfriend.”

“Kady!” Quentin says loudly, trying to talk over Margo (though between Kady’s unimpressed look and Margo’s amused one he suspects that it might be a useless endeavour), “What are you doing here? I thought that you weren’t allowed to fraternise with us until after the competition?”

Kady gives them a tight smile: “Yeah, well, something came up. Something important.”

Quentin can feel the panic tighten in his chest, shuddering, Eliot’s soft touch on his back the only thing stopping him from running out of the green room: “Is it Julia?” he asks urgently, “Is she ok? Do we have to call an ambulance?”

“What? No. She’s- Julia’s fine the last I saw her which was like five minutes ago so calm down Coldwater. No, it’s- I need to talk to you, Eliot.”

“Moi?” Eliot says, “What could you possibly-”

“Look, just come with me,” Kady snaps, and her face is drawn and serious.

Eliot exchanges one long look with Margo: “Alright children,” he says, “Try not to get into too much trouble while daddy’s gone.”

“I can’t believe that you had a crush on this guy,” Penny mutters under his breath, but he’s looking worried as well. He reaches out a hand to Kady but she pointedly ignores it, and after a couple of seconds he drops it back down to his side.

Quentin doesn’t reply, too busy watching Eliot and Kady as they wend their way through the crowd and out the door.

“What do you think’s going on?” he asks Margo.

She frowns back at him. She’s clearly as happy as he is about it, but there’s nothing that they can really do. They don’t know what’s happening, whether there is an emergency and if so why the hell it’s Kady who’s come to tell Eliot about it.

“I have no fucking idea.”

There’s nothing more to really say. The five of them stand in their corner of the room in silence. After twenty minutes or so and with no sign of Eliot, Quentin pulls out the battered sheaf of choreography notes from Eliot and his marked-up sheet music and tries to concentrate. Penny, Josh, and Fen silently follow suit and eventually manage a whispered conversation and last-minute rehearsal on some of the hand gestures. Quentin doesn’t join in.

Forty minutes after Eliot’s departure, there’s a huge roar from on stage and acts start leaving the room, one by one. They can hear snippets from their corner, the occasional loud pop-song or the operatic vocals of a group that should have really known better.

The room continues to empty, and Margo starts pacing in the empty space, tapping on her phone to message the, judging by her unsatisfied frown, unresponsive Eliot.

An hour later, Penny places a hand on Quentin’s shoulder.

“It’s our turn to perform soon,” he says, “We should probably do some warm-up. We don’t want to fuck our voices up for tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you’re. You’re right,” Quentin says, “That’s- that’s a good idea. I. I guess that Eliot can just do a quick one just before we go one stage.”

“Well, he’s got the voice for it,” Josh says, but the joke falls flat. Because they still don’t know where he is and what’s he’s doing and what’s going on.

They all gather together in the quieter part of the green room, now half-empty, and Quentin removes a small harmonica from his pocket and leads them through some basic warm-ups. Fen is clearly trying to stay as positive as possible, injecting as much energy as possible into her voice-exercises, but even she is falling flat. There’s a furrow in her brow, and she keeps staring at the door whenever it opens, hoping that it’s Eliot.

It never is.

Warm-ups finished; Quentin doesn’t know what to do. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he can see that it’s only ten minutes until they’re meant to be on. One more act.

They should be waiting backstage, ready to come on as soon as Alice introduces them. They don’t want to miss their slot: they were given dire warnings complete with the threat of mutilation (Alice might have been feeling a little stressed) about what would happen if they weren’t backstage on time. Not being able to perform had been the least of them.

Still. Quentin doesn’t want to leave.

Finally, as they hear the applause from onstage, they have to move.

“I don’t think he’s coming, man,” Penny says lowly.

“No, he’ll be there,” Quentin says, a hollow feeling in his chest, “He promised that he would. He’s, er, he was probably just help up and is going to meet us by the stage.”

“The stage that’s only five minutes’ walk away?”

“He’ll be there,” Quentin insists.

Because he will. Eliot promised, had looked him straight in his eyes the day before and said that he’d be there for him. That afternoon, rehearsing their revised choreography, every time that Quentin had caught his eyes, Eliot had smiled at him. And it was a promise, it was, every single smile had filled him with warmth.

Margo just gives him a tight smile.

“I’m not going to tell you to break a leg,” she tells them all, “Because if you don’t win, I’m going to break the fucking judging panel’s legs.”

Quentin chokes out a laugh, and Margo flashes him a surprisingly sympathetic smile.

“Hey,” she says, “Even if El doesn’t turn up, I know that you guys have got this.”

The walk to the stage feels endless. As they approach, Quentin can hear Alice’s confident voice: “-and now, our next act, the Mistle-Tones!”

Eliot isn’t waiting by the stage.

Quentin climbs the stairs and gets into position.

The show must go on.

#

Eliot doesn’t come back.


	14. The Day Of

“Quentin.”

“What, dad?” he says dully, staring at the threadbare blanket in front of him. There’s a loose thread that he’s been picking at, one that’s unravelled so much over the past ten minutes or so that there’s now an ever-growing hole.

That’s fine though. His dad knows what to expect from him. He’s been here before.

“Hey Curly Q,” he says, setting down a mug of honey tea next to his previous untouched mug, “How are you holding up?”

“Fine,” Quentin says dully.

His dad frowns at him and sits down next to him heavily. He places his hands on Quentin’s, stopping the aimless movements and probably saving the blanket from its premature death. He picks up his hands gently, running his fingers along his chewed and bloody fingernails.

“You know,” he says, not looking at Quentin directly, just continuing his rhythmic movements, “Did I ever tell you about your first Nativity?”

“What?”

“You were five,” his dad continues, “You were one of the sheep, and you were so excited because you actually got a line unlike the rest of the flock. It wasn’t a lot, but the way that you went on and on about it and rehearsed your line…you would have thought that you’d won an Oscar or something.”

“Why are you telling me this, dad,” Quentin says. He just feels…so tired.

“You were bouncing around the house for weeks and weeks beforehand. You wanted to help make your costume, and you would spend hours in the library reading the encyclopaedia entry on sheep and shepherds. Somewhere up in the attic-” he makes a vague gesture toward the ceiling, “I think that we’ve still got it.”

“Seriously dad, what’s your point.”

Quentin sits up and pulls away from him. Can’t he just- be allowed to wallow in self-pity without having to endure the well-meaning attempts to cheer him up? There’s a reason that he’s retreated to his dad’s house: he just couldn’t stand the pitying looks from Penny, Josh and Fen, Margo’s anger and creative insults, Marina’s smug smile as the Snow Belles accepted first prize from Alice. No, the moment that the competition had finished, he’d walked home, brushing off all attempts to talk to him, backed an overnight bag on autopilot and then begged Jane for the use of her landline and got his dad to pick him up.

It’s the first time that he’s been glad that his cell phone is broken.

“The point, curly Q,” he says, “Is that the last time I saw you so enthusiastic about a project it was almost twenty years ago. And- look, I don’t know what’s happened or what’s going on, but I do know that the past couple of weeks you’ve been the happiest that I’ve seen you for a long time.”

He puts a tentative hand on Quentin’s back and, when he doesn’t pull away, pulls him in close for a hug. Quentin closes his eyes and allows it, inhaling the scent of dad and home and love. There are tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, but he doesn’t let them fall. He doesn’t.

“I just don’t want you to lose that joy,” his dad murmurs into his hair.

Quentin sniffs, once. He leans back and roughly scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hands.

“You’re right,” he says. His voice is rough, and his eyes are burning, but: “You’re right. I- God dad, I’ve made some pretty awesome friends, and I’ve. I’ve had a good time. I’ve learnt that I actually like singing.” He gives a choked laugh, “You know that for years I hated it? I mean, I’d go but I was only trying to make mom happy. But, surprisingly, I actually really enjoyed it. Having fun? It was- it was good.”

He looks up at his dad and gives him a watery smile: “I shouldn’t pin my self-worth on what other people think about me,” he says, “Not even people who love me.”

He takes a deep breath. “Dad,” he says, voice steady, “Would you mind driving me to Brakebills? There’s something that I have to do.”

#

It’s kind of beautiful.

After dark the mall is lit up like a fairy tale, lights draped over every available tree and around the doors and windows. There are soft instrumental Christmas carol covers playing in the background, and the path into the mall itself is picked out in flickering lights.

Quentin can’t help but smile: he’s been working on this event for weeks, but this is the first time that he’s seen it after dark. The concept sketches and proposals that he’s spent hours pouring over have come to life, and it’s pretty amazing actually. He can see why Eliot likes it: the surge of satisfaction, of everything coming together perfectly is an addictive feeling.

He walks in and makes his way to the green room, knocking on the door softly, and then opening it.

“Quentin?” Julia asks, half-rising from her chair, “Q, are you-”

“Hey Julia,” he says, smiling at her, “I just came to say-well. I er, just came to wish you good luck.”

He looks around the room, at Julia who’s looking concerned, Kady who can’t meet his eyes, Ess who looks vaguely bored. Marina, glaring at him.

“Who let the loser in?” she asks, arching one perfectly coiffed brow.

“Seriously,” Quentin says, “You- you’re all really talented. And I know that you’re going to be magical.”

And then he turns and walks out the door.

Outside Brakebills, he takes a moment to stop and breath in the cool night air. It’s a beautiful evening. Looking up at the sky, he starts to laugh. Because there are small specks of white falling down upon him: like all the best Christmas stories, it’s started to snow.

The snow starts to fall thick and fast, and Quentin laughs. He can feel it collecting in his hair and on his eyelashes.

There’s a sound, and Quentin instinctively turns toward it. It sounds like it’s coming from the nearby park, but he doesn’t know who or what it could be. The entire town is already at the Christmas extravaganza.

As he walks toward it, a single male voice starts singing: “Wise men say, only fools rush in-”

“What?” Quentin’s pace quickens. Because that sounds like-

“Eliot?”

And it is him.

Standing on top of a makeshift stage, staring directly at him. Fen, Josh, Penny and Margo are there as well, clustered around and wrapped warmly in gloves and coats, cradling steaming mugs of hot chocolate in their hands. There’s a thermos flask on the ground next to them, and an extra mug.

Fen looks up and smiles at him, running forward and throwing her arms around him.

“I’m so glad you’re ok,” she says. She takes him by the hand and pulls him forward, toward the others and the stage and Eliot, his dark eyes intense and snow shining in his hair like stars.

“-darling so it goes, some things are meant to be-”

Quentin stands dumb, automatically accepting his own mug of hot chocolate from Margo.

“-take my hand, take my whole life too. ‘cus I can’t help, falling in love with you.”

Quentin isn’t sure he’s emotionally ready for the song to be over. He wants to- he wants to shout, to be angry, to demand answers, to ask Eliot why he abandoned them. To rush forward and kiss him and brush the snow out of his hair and to hold him and be held and know that he’s loved. Instead he just stands there.

“Hey Q,” Eliot says softly, coming forward and handing his microphone to Josh, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I can’t believe I thought you were cool,” Quentin chokes out, “You’re just-God. Talk about clichés.”

Eliot smiles at him: “Well,” he says, “I guess I’m just a romantic at heart.”

Everyone around them is moving away to give the two of them space. He notices it distantly. Like something seen through a thick pane of glass.

“You left,” Quentin says, “You promised that you’d be there, and you left.”

“I know,” Eliot says, “And I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life. Especially if it means that you don’t want to see me anymore. But I had to try and explain.”

He takes a deep breath.

“My parents were here,” he says, “They’d flown out from Indiana. Marina contacted them, said she wanted to engineer a ‘family reunion’ or something. Well-” and he smiles bitterly, “I think we both know that’s not what she was hoping for.”

“Oh,” Quentin says.

“I made a mistake,” Eliot says bluntly, “I let my- my weakness get the better of me, and by the time I realised that I didn’t care what they thought about me, it was too late. You’d already left.”

He moves forward, softly, as if Quentin were some wild and precious thing he was trying not to frighten and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “I can’t change the past,” he breathes, “But I can make sure that I never make the same mistake again. If you give me a chance.”

“So,” and for the first time he looks nervous, “What do you say? Do you- Would you. Please. Q. Forgive me?”

A dam inside Quentin breaks, all the emotions that he had shoved behind the protective wall of apathy spilling forward and he can feel the tears gather at his eyes.

“Fuck,” Eliot says, reaching forward and brushing one away, “I didn’t mean-”

And then Quentin is surging forward, and they’re kissing.

Around them, the snow keeps falling.


	15. Epilogue: One Year Later

“Walking in a winter wonderlaaaaand!”

As Quentin shuts the door behind him, the sound of Fen, Margo, and Josh’s enthusiastic duet (triet? Trio? Something like that anyway) cuts off. Standing on the front porch, he gazes out into the night.

It’s a quiet evening. Behind him, he knows that the house is lit up with hundreds and hundreds of twinkling fairy lights entwined in freshly cut pine branches that Eliot and Margo had spent a gleefully combative five hours setting up early that day. Taking a deep breath, he can smell the earthy scent of pine in the air, mixed in with the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg from Josh’s day of baking.

It’s…pretty nice. This time last year he couldn’t have imagined everyone coming together like this, Penny and Kady sprawled out on the floor in front of the fire, Julia debating whether eggnog was disgusting or traditional, or some weird American mixture of the two with Alice in the kitchen.

Tomorrow he and Eliot are going to spend Christmas day with his dad, and he couldn’t have dreamed of that either. In his darker moments, he’s pretty sure that his dad never thought that the day would come either.

The door opens behind him opens softly, and Quentin leans back, closing his eyes and breathing in the unique scent of Eliot.

“Hey.”

Quentin can feel the rumble of Eliot’s voice, more familiar than his own at this point, move through him, and opening his eyes he smiles. Turning around, he reaches up and cups Eliot’s cheek, pulling him down to press a soft kiss to his mouth. Eliot’s hand automatically cups the back of Quentin’s neck, and they stand there for a moment, foreheads pressed against each other and savouring the moment.

“Hey,” he replies softly.

And Quentin fixes this moment in his memory, gently smooths it down in his mind to carry him through the hard times to come, pasting it next to dozens more. The future stretches blank and full of potential in front of him. Because in this moment, in this beautiful, shining moment- he’s happy. He’s so gloriously, damnably happy.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on Tumblr [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com) .


End file.
